Shattered
by We Forgot
Summary: Methos returns to town a changed man harboring a deadly secret that will forever change the immortal world as we know it. COMPLETE! Please review :D
1. Part One Discoveries

Note: This is a repost after extensive editing. Please leave feedback/complaints/insults. 

"Gotta be good . . ." The disjointed words drifted through the fog-choked air. The alley reeked of urine and dirty water. Heaps of trash and refuse choked its mouth; dim light seeped into its bowels from a weak streetlamp.

"Gotta be good . . ." Again the fractured statement. The voice was faint, a hint of an accent colored its gray tone. No coherent thought seemed to flow from the mind uttering the phrase. A mound of trash huddled under a broken drainpipe shifted. Stacks of moldering paper sloughed off as a human figure appeared under its depths.

The person was male, his age impossible to determine. He was caked with filth, facial hair matted and grown past his shoulders. His hair was thick and oily, greasy ropes of it trailed down his back. His eyes were vacant and bloodshot, their color washed out in the dim light. He raised a gray hand to his jaw and scratched fiercely. His eyes gained a wild light; fearfully he ducked into his pile of garbage and snuffled around. Searching for something. Frantically he began throwing gloppy handfuls of refuse out of his way.

At the mouth of the alley a tall man stood. His hair was dark and cropped short. His shoulders were broad and powerfully built he stood around six foot. He wore a dark greatcoat, blue jeans and boots. His name was Duncan MacLeod. The man in the alley squealed and continued his harried search.

"Not here . . . its not here, where is it? Gotta be good, he's watching, he'll be disappointed, gotta be good, I liked him and I killed him, liked her too, liked them all . . .still killed 'em, gotta be good now, he's watching." He gurgled in surprised joy and snatched something out of a puddle. MacLeod simply stood and watched. His shoulders seemed to fall as the dirty man's frenetic chant drifted to him. "Thought you'd get me unawares did you? I'm not done yet!" The filthy scarecrow screamed and charged MacLeod. His rags flapped crazily as he leapt over piles of trash howling like a possessed creature.

MacLeod stood his ground until the last possible moment. As the homicidal dervish flowed across the ground the man slid into a crouch and dropped his attacker to the ground. He moved with an economy of speed and selective skill in his blows that spoke of a deep mastery. The crazed creature dropped senseless to the ground, as he fell his weapon clattered at MacLeod's feet.

MacLeod knelt and picked it up it was a sword. He lowered his head and dropped the blade. His shoulders began to shake and quaver, slowly, solemnly the gentle sound of sobs drifted out of the alley and into the damp night.

The young man stood in the doorway. His blonde hair backlit by the winter sun. He flashed a smile at his companion; it was received by a blank stare.  
"Mac, you couldn't have known. It's not your fault. He takes off all the time, how were you supposed to know that he was in trouble? He doesn't like to stay in contact, you know that." The young man said his voice strained with emotion.

_ Mac sat at his desk in the dojo's office going over paperwork. He heaved a sigh and wondered if he could come up with a good excuse to blow off the rest of the day and finish tomorrow sometime. He was wondering whether unfinished laundry qualified when the perfect excuse breezed into the office and flopped into a chair.  
"Hey, MacLeod, what's up?" Methos asked smirking and fiddling with a pencil jar.  
_

_ Mac stared at the oldest man in the world and felt a little seed of irritation burrow under the base of his skull. He wondered if he could convince him to go away, and then wondered if he wanted him to. He hadn't seen Methos in nearly a week and could feel an urge to get truly drunk creeping up on him.  
_

_ "I don't want to argue with you today, you want to just skip three or four hours of bullshit and get drunk?" He asked tossing his stack of papers into a drawer and slamming it shut. He looked up at his friend expectantly._

_ "Well, imagine the cheek of that, you really think I came all the way over here just to tempt you into a night of debauchery? Did it ever occur to you that I might have a completely legitimate and worthwhile reason to come over here?" Methos asked working up a suitable expression of wounded innocence.  
_

_ "No, not really, why, do you?" Mac asked leaning back in his seat and smirking.  
_

_ "Well, as it happens, I don't, but you didn't know that, now shall you drive or shall I?" Methos asked flipping a pencil into the ceiling tiles of Mac's office.  
_

_ "You drive? I'm sure." Mac said walking past the sprawled ancient one and knocking his booted feet off his desk._

MacLeod remained silent. He stared out a small window his eyes focused on nothing. The window looked out onto a saltwater bay. Small fishing and pleasure boats crisscrossed his line of sight. Far off on the horizon an oil tanker chugged heading in toward port.

"I should have known, he's never been gone for more than a year, I should have known." His voice was dull, sucked dry of all emotion. He didn't blink and he didn't shift his gaze. He sat in a steel and plastic chair, the strange man's sword on his lap. It had been meticulously cleaned and polished. Mac's blank face was reflected on its surface. The sword was an Ivanhoe.

The room the two stood in was part of a small house located on a cliff overlooking a small bay in a town known as South Port. South Port was a three-hour drive from Seacouver Washington where Mac usually stayed when he wasn't living on his barge in Paris.

"It doesn't matter now anyway Richie, he's here now, we have to help him now." He continued after an uncomfortable pause. Richie stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Fine Mac, but you have to pull yourself together and keep it together. You're no good to him or yourself if all you can do is stare and sit in a corner, he needs you and so do I.  
Can you imagine the kind of people that are going to show up if word gets out that the great Duncan MacLeod and Methos the Oldest Immortal are holed up in a shack completely helpless? Think Mac, if the Watchers followed us here and they must have then its only a matter of time before other immortals find out we're here and then Methos is really done for, his cover will be blown, he won't be just some crazy we picked up, he'll be an easy kill. We both have to be functioning and able to fight. I can't do this on my own Mac, I can't . . ." He trailed off as his anger died away.

MacLeod didn't say anything he simply set the sword reverently on a bench seat and left the room. Richie Ryan Mac's protégé sat down on the bench seat and looked out the window. His face was gray and thin. All ready a slimly built man he had lost too much weight. He set his jaw on his palm and sighed. He was only a kid still, permanently frozen at the peak of his youth he would remain a child-man for the rest of his existence. Cursed and blessed by immortality brought on by a violent death. His first death had occurred only a handful of years before; he wasn't even thirty. He had lived more in the last few years than his rough and tumble childhood in orphanages and foster homes had ever prepared him for. His education had been spotty at best. His worldview radically skewed. Mac had changed that for him. Taking him in and giving him a fair chance at a decent life until a hopped up junkie had murdered Richie and Mac's fiancé Tessa Noel. Richie rubbed his torso where the bullets had torn away the last remnants of his innocence. He could hear voices in the other room.

Methos sat in the corner of a bare room. Painted stark white and unfurnished except for an old mattress. The room was scarred with the signs of frenetic activity. He had attempted to claw his way through the walls at several points, bloodying his hands in the process. Rust colored stains marred the walls and door. His clothes were shredded again by his own hands. MacLeod had shaved, bathed and dressed the older man. Clean and unconscious he appeared helpless and dead. His flesh was green white from malnourishment. He was hideously thin his limp flaccid muscles bulged under his flesh like ropes. When he had awoken he had launched into a crazed frenzy of accusations and apologies. One moment he would attack anyone in the room screaming obscenities the next he would beg to die.

"I'm sorry old friend. I do not know who did this to you, I would take you to Sean but he's dead, despite your best efforts. You were there for me in my darkest hour, you saved me from myself, how can I do less for you?"

He paused for a moment frowning in thought and continued, "I suppose this was inevitable, you loathed yourself for millennia. What does that do to a person's psyche? I miss you, I miss finding you flopped on my couch drinking my beer. I miss your wry comments and hard edges. Joe misses you too, he won't admit it much but he does, he wants to come here. I don't know, you aren't exactly yourself . . ." he smiled wryly, sorrowfully.

Methos stared at Mac, his strange eyes shifting colors in the overhead lighting. Mac wondered if anything was left of his old friend. Methos was clad in loose pajama pants and a straight jacket. Mac had been forced to knock him unconscious to get the jacket on him. They couldn't risk letting him escape and the horror of his attempts emphasized his new deranged state.

"Let me go MacLeod, I'm better now." He hissed staring feverishly at Mac.

"Methos? Is that really you?" Mac asked warily, disbelieving taking a tentative step toward him.

"Let me go MacLeod, its over, we can go back to Seacouver, we can leave here, we can go spend time listening to Joe and training Richie."

Mac's head spun, Methos was better? "Methos, what happened to you?"

"Come here MacLeod and I'll show you." Methos crooned and stood up he raised his hand and walked toward Mac.

Mac stood frozen, rooted, a voice in the back of his head was screaming. Something's wrong, this isn't right, run, leave do something don't just stand! But he remained where he was. Methos reached forward, somehow his straight jacket had vanished; he was wearing his old coat, and a shapeless sweater. He placed his hand on Mac's forehead.  
Mac jerked and tried to break contact, he went rigid and his jaws clenched and slammed together. He felt blinding crippling pain, his world exploded and his soul was wrenched. He opened his mind desperate to drive away the barrage of images and feelings. Somewhere he could feel his sanity cracking. All at once his lethargy, his rigid helplessness crumbled and he lurched forward.

He was slumped in the corner of Methos's cell. His mouth tasted foul and his eyes were gritty. Slowly he stood stretching cramped muscles. Methos lay curled in a tight ball. His features were flaccid and limp- devoid of intelligence. His thin strong hands were balled into fists and one arm was flung over his eyes. The straitjacket lay crumpled in a corner; Mac didn't have the heart to replace it. A dream, it was only a dream. Shaking his aching head Mac left the room and its senseless tenant. He had slept for hours. The sun had set and the lighthouse was flashing on the point. He walked down the hall, past his own room on the left and into the kitchen. Richie was standing at the stove cooking something; a T.V. sat on the counter playing the evening news.

"Finally wake up huh?" Richie asked absently reaching into a cupboard for some ingredients while watching the T.V.

"Yeah." Mac asked still feeling disoriented from the dream.

"Joe called, he still wants to come down." Richie said and snagged a pot of pepper and a handful of dried peppers. He dropped them as he reached to close the cupboard with his elbow.

"Shit." He muttered and dropped to his knees to retrieve the spices. He remained there for a moment and when he stood he had tears in his eyes.

"You gonna snap out of it?" He said softly tears streaming down his cheeks.

Mac reached out and pulled his young friend toward him, he wrapped him in a bear hug and let his own tears come. For weeks he had held back, believing it would be better for Richie if he didn't grieve, if he didn't let his own hopelessness overwhelm the young man. Richie sobbed and hung limp in Mac's arms.  
Slowly Richie straightened up and wiped away his tears.

"You're right. I'm sorry; I thought that if I could hold back, if I could keep control then it wouldn't . . .wouldn't really be real. I never meant . . . I'm sorry Richie." Mac said softly letting his own tears dry.

Richie remained silent; he picked up the pepper, and poured it into the skillet and began chopping the peppers. Mac watched him and then stood and helped, he washed the dishes and set the table. They both sat down, but neither of them ate. They just sat as the food grew cold and the night grew old.

Methos sat, arms pinned to his too prominent ribs. His mind was fractured, like a badly broken leg. Shards here and there connected by the ghost of a form. Deep in the primal part of his mind lay a fragment of his former self. As he stared and gurgled inanely that shard slowly woke and began to rebuild the framework of consciousness.

Days passed with no change in the ancient man. He grew less violent in the first weeks and then slipped into a still state. He would move around his room for a few hours each day before settling in the corner. Where he would gurgle and hum to himself for hours until he crawled onto his ragged mattress and slept, only to repeat the cycle the next day. He would not eat and had to be force-fed or fed intravenously when he grew too weak to resist.

MacLeod stood in the kitchen of the little house. He was cooking an omelet that no one would eat and arguing with his friend and Watcher Joe Dawson.

"I don't know Joe, it looked like he was getting better for awhile, but now he just does the same thing day in and day out. If only Sean wasn't . . . if only there was someone we could take him to." Joe tactfully didn't mention the fact that MacLeod had killed Sean Burns the only immortal with any real psychological training. MacLeod had killed him while in the grip of a dark quickening. Overcome by the evil of the immortals he had killed he had become evil himself raping and killing his way to Burns. Where Methos had found him and saved him from himself.

"Mac, I understand you're feelings, but at least wait until I can see him. I know you've been trying to protect me. I know he's nothing like he was, but I have to see him, I have to make it real before I can give you a decision. Besides Mac he's my friend as much as yours you crazy Scot bastard." Joe's voice was almost pleading. Mac didn't reply for a moment. The younger man was right, he had a right to see Methos. Nonetheless it took an effort to say so.

"Okay, Joe you win, just be careful, we don't know who could be watching."

"I'll be there as soon as possible, take care Mac." Joe said hurriedly and hung up.

Richie walked into the room, he took in Mac standing at the stove glaring at the phone receiver and frowning. Richie smirked and took the phone from his hand.

"Joe?" he asked rhetorically and hung up the receiver. Mac only got that worked up if he'd been talking Joe out of coming down again.

"He's coming this time." Mac said and took the skillet off the stovetop; he dumped the omelet onto a plate and set the hot skillet in the sink.  
Richie remained silent; it had to happen eventually.

"So we're going to decide soon then?" He asked secretly hoping they would never have to decide whether or not they had to abandon Methos. Either to an order of monks or simply take his head and end his misery. He stared at the omelet; they'd made a practice out of preparing a meal everyday for Methos and taking it to him. All it had ever gotten them so far was food on the walls. Mac just nodded, Richie reached to take the plate but Mac intercepted him and picked it up himself.

"S'okay, I'll take it." He said and smiled unconvincingly.

Richie watched him tread out of the kitchen and down the hall. He heaved a sigh and reached to turn off the stove. The newly re-awakened portion of Methos had been working steadily. Soon Methos felt and acknowledged his body's basic needs. Abandoned synapses sparked into life, slowly a new sensation crept through his cells and blood stream. Gingerly it registered in the dim recesses of his rekindled mind that he was hungry.

Mac opened the door and closed it behind him, careful to keep his gaze from the huddled man in the corner. He hated the sight of Methos's fine features glistening with drool or contorted with irrational ravings. His soul rebelled at the knowledge that such an intelligent man, a man so devoted to survival could come to such a state. If it could happen to Methos, why couldn't it happen to anyone?

He walked toward Methos. He crouched next to him and set the plate on the floor. Methos stared at the corner. Mercifully he wasn't moaning, or drooling, or rocking. To Mac's surprise Methos's eyes turned and looked into his. There was no recognition in them, barely even any sentience. Mutely he made twitching motions toward the plate and its steamy occupant. Stunned Mac snatched it up and tore a piece off the omelet spearing it on the fork he held it toward the crippled ancient. Methos jerked toward it and made frantic suckling motions when he couldn't quite reach it. Mac thrust it toward his open mouth and it vanished in a mess of gobbling and uncoordinated chewing.

Mac fed him the rest of the omelet and then cups of thin broth. Methos had always had access to a restroom although his infrequent intake of nourishment had made it more of a token than a necessity. Now he made full use of it, vomiting up the omelet. After the omelet he managed to keep more of the broth down.

As Mac helped Methos back to his mattress he heard the door open. He looked up and saw Richie's slack-jawed stare. It was only then that he realized he hadn't told him that Methos was eating, when he had gone into the kitchen to make the broth Richie was practicing his sword play out in the back yard.

"He's . . ." Richie stammered.

"Yes, nearly a quart of broth, though the omelet was too much." Mac said joyfully.

"Yeah, but he's . . .I mean, he's eating, does that mean . . .?" he left the sentence uncompleted; the possibility of a full recovery had been abandoned within days of bringing Methos to the house. The hopes for any type of recovery had died weeks ago when it became clear that Methos would never recover from his desolate cycle of barely conscious monotony.

Mac shook his head fiercely "No, don't even think it Richie, not yet, don't even hope Richie, its impossible." Richie knew this, yet it was impossible not to hope, just a little deep down.

They continued feeding Methos until he could hold down solid food. They watched him in cycles, hoping for more signs of change. They brought a T.V. into his room thinking it might spark his interest, or at least a reaction. They fed him three meals a day and he began to regain weight. His skin was still pale but the yellow tinge began to fade. He didn't make eye contact with anyone again. A week after he began eating Joe arrived.

Mac met him in the driveway.

"Hi Mac, how're you and Richie doin?" Joe asked avoiding the main subject as he pulled a duffel bag out of his trunk. Mac picked up the bag and closed the trunk.

"We're doing well enough. Look Joe, there's been a change, I want you to remember that he's basically a vegetable and we still don't know why. He seems to have improved slightly but he may regress. It's going to be ugly and I want you to try to be prepared."

"What change?" Joe demanded ignoring Mac's warning.

"He's started eating solid food, and well, it may have been a fluke, but he made eye-contact."

"That's fantastic! When did this happen?" Joe demanded walking toward the front door. Mac walked alongside him carrying his bag and opening the door. Joe was an amputee, he had lost both legs in Vietnam and now as he approached old age his prosthetics pained him more frequently. Mac had noticed a wheelchair stowed in the trunk along with the bag.

"Joe, reality check! He's not Methos anymore, okay? Keep that in mind. Remember that, he's not going to be the same ever again." Mac said coldly.

"Don't you think I know that? I know he's never going to be the same! Just tell me when this happened." Joe snapped back.

"I'm sorry Joe, its just, its not a pretty sight okay? It happened the same day you called." Joe nodded and followed Mac into the house through the kitchen past Richie's room and into the spare room.

"Where's Richie?" Joe asked unzipping the bag.

"He's with him now, we don't leave him anymore." Mac said

"I'd like to see him now." Mac just nodded and led the way. When he reached the door he knocked gently and waited. At Richie's soft acknowledgement he opened the door. It was late at least 10:30, and Methos was asleep. He lay curled in a tight ball on the mattress, one blanket pulled over him. Joe and Mac entered quietly and sat next to Richie on the floor.

Joe leaned forward and studied his drinking buddy's face. His features were slack, his brow unlined. Sleeping he thought, he looks just like a young boy. Uneasily he wondered if the same innocence would carry into consciousness. He was still too thin but he understood why. How could you force a lunatic to eat when you couldn't get close to him? His heart ached for the witty mind that had once remarked "We ate, we drank, we vomited." When questioned about ancient Greek Gastronomy habits.

He reached out and laid a hand on Methos's shoulder. Gently he shook him. Methos awoke slowly twitchingly. He opened his eyes and focused on the unfamiliar face hovering inches from his own. He made an inarticulate noise and scurried off the bed and into the corner. He buried his face in his hands and moaned.  
Joe jerked as though burned and stared after the spidery creature his features frozen in horror. Slowly his face crumpled and went blank.

"Methos? Hey buddy?" He crooned slowly moving toward him.

Mac and Richie stood and followed Joe at a distance. Joe crouched awkwardly and kept talking.

"Hey man, its me Joe, you remember me? Come on I know you do, remember that bastard Walker and Amy? Remember the favor you did for me? I'm going to repay you now, okay? I'm going to help you out of this silence, I'm going to help make the world familiar again." He kept talking resorting to anything to keep his voice going continuously reminding

Methos that he was there and he wasn't a threat. Again he placed his hand on Methos's shoulder. This time Methos didn't flee.

Joe sat with his hand on his friends shoulder and talked for hours. By the time the sun appeared his voice was raw. But Methos had come out of the corner and sat staring at Richie and Mac. Worn out Mac had to help Joe to his bed. When he returned Richie lay on the floor asleep and Methos was sitting in his corner. Mac woke Richie and sent him to bed, he turned on Methos's T.V. and walked to the kitchen to make some breakfast.

The spark of Methos's mind had grown to a small ember. He could focus on his own needs and was beginning to recall emotions. He remembered fear and dread, he remembered love and pleasure. All he felt now was confusion. He struggled to focus coherent thoughts. He knew no words, could not articulate. So he stared and slept. Words would come soon.

After feeding Methos a small breakfast Mac sat in the corner and stared at the view while he thought. It looked like Methos was improving but perhaps he was relapsing to his former irrational violent state. If that were so what would they do? If he or Richie took his head to spare his suffering would they too go mad? If they didn't would the monks be up to caring for a mad and violent immortal for eternity? He struggled with the problem for a while before giving it up for the moment. Eventually he fell asleep.  
Days passed, Methos did not become violent and eventually he grew accustomed to Joe. The spark that had grown into an ember grew to a small fire. He began a basic thought process, everyday he watched one of his guardians come in and use a knife and fork to divide food into portions small enough to be eaten. He made a vague sort of decision to do it for himself. In the silence of his mind he struggled to find a voice.

Joe backed into Methos's room balancing two plates; both held a steak and baked potato. Joe set one plate on the floor next to Methos and balanced the other with one hand as he awkwardly sat down.

"Okay my friend, dinner time." He said and reached for the silverware he'd left on the first plate. To his surprise it wasn't there, he looked up to see Methos attempting to feed himself. Joe burst into laughter at the caricature of his friend desperately attempting to slice the steak with a fork handle. Gently Joe helped Methos hold the utensils correctly and demonstrated their use. Immediately Methos began to cut the meal into pieces and devour it, he then started on Joe's.

"By God you are getting better, you've even upgraded to theft!" Joe cried. His laughter brought Mac and Richie who stood staring and then started laughing as well. Methos ignored them and continued eating until both plates were bare. He then scurried back into his corner and ignored the rest of the room.

He spoke for the first time since his disappearance a week later. Mac had dropped off his food and was telling him about a movie he and Richie had gone to the night before when Methos interrupted.

"So then the hero says something lame like, 'well that's what you think and.. "

"MmmmaaaaaccLLLLLeeoooodddddd." Methos gurgled struggling to enunciate.

Mac dropped to his knees.

"Methos? Do you remember me?" He whispered.

Methos stared blankly and repeated, "MmmaaccLeeooddd?" Doing a better job on the pronunciation.

"Yes, that's me, MacLeod, Duncan MacLeod." He pleaded hoping Methos was remembering his name and not just repeating a word he had heard almost daily for three months.

Methos frowned and said, "Joe?" The name was easier to say and dropped from his tongue like a rock. Mac sat back on his heels and shook his head.

"I'm MacLeod, do you want Joe? I'll go get Joe, just don't, don't stop." He said frantically and irrationally and all but ran from the room. When he returned it was with Joe and Richie.

Methos sat in his usual place and watched them approach. They sat in a semicircle around him; Joe sat in a chair Mac had dragged in a few days ago.

"Come on Methos, its okay, I'm MacLeod, Duncan MacLeod. This is Joe, you wanted Joe, right?" He asked pointing to Joe.

The tiny fire in Methos's mind that had reawakened forgotten abilities, jumpstarted his brain and forced his mind into activity blazed into a forest fire. He screamed and lurched to his feet. He knocked his companions across the room when they tried to calm and restrain him. He howled and shrieked tearing at his clothes. He was remembering. His life as Death, the ages since, meeting MacLeod, killing Silas, and more, so much more. He raged until exhausted and burnt out he dropped to his knees. He went limp and dissolved into tears his breathing was ragged and his entire body hurt, he felt the familiar exhaustion common after a quickening. He remembered everything.

"Methos?" A soft voice questioned, he couldn't tell who's it was. He closed his eyes and remained silent. He felt hands under his arms dragging him onto the mattress.

"No" He murmured weakly. He stopped moving.

"Where?" The voice asked he still couldn't tell who's it was.

"Bed, real bed." He sighed trying to gain the strength to open his eyes, he gave up and welcomed the arms of Morpheus.

_ "Tell me oh wise and ancient one. . ." Mac said  
_

_ "Watch your tongue youngster or I'll have to paddle you." Methos interrupted drunkenly. He was attempting to watch a horse race on the television after imbibing entirely too much alcohol and could not remember whether or not he had bet on a horse in this race or whether it was a different race.  
_

_ "As I was saying you walking talking ego, tell me, have you ever come across anything supernatural in your long life, oh guru?" Mac asked half serious, half drunk.  
_

_ "Define supernatural, really natural or what?" He said struggling to remember if Billy's Little Wonder or Flies at Midnight with Dynamite was the horse he'd placed money on. He was ninety nine percent sure that he'd bet on this race, if it was Billy's then he'd lost an insane amount of money, if it was Flies he'd lost slightly less money.  
_

_ "I don't know, you know, witches, goblins, werewolves, vampires, hags, the whole nine yards." Mac said reaching for another bottle of beer. Joe spied the two camped out at his best table and began making his way through the packed bar. Blues wailed through the sound system. A local group sat onstage, steel string guitars and heavy bass rumbled behind the vocalist's mournful lyrics.  
_

_ "Mmm have you?" Methos asked finally turning his attention away from the T.V. in time to miss the trailer proclaiming the footage to be from a race twenty years ago.  
_

_ "Well, unless you count Cassandra and Ahriman, no." Mac said knocking back his beer and swallowing hungrily.  
_

_ "Oh, I see, so unless I count Cassandra the witch of whatever wood and Ahriman a Zoroastrian demon bent on the destruction of the world it's a no then?" Methos said mockingly.  
_

_ "Answer the question and stop trying to change the subject." Mac said pulling out a chair for Joe.  
_

_ "What question?" Joe asked sitting down and signaling a waitress for a beer.  
_

_ "Mmm the boy wonder wants to know whether I've ever come across anything supernatural." Methos said scoffing a handful of nuts.  
_

_ "Good question, have you?" Joe asked spearing a cashew from Methos's stash on the table. Methos arched an eyebrow and smirked his eyes gleaming.  
_

_ "Why do you want to know?" He asked his audience, enjoying their frustration and Mac's attempt to articulate through a haze of whiskey. Methos had been drinking steadily but five thousand years of practice had made his tolerance for alcohol and his self-control when intoxicated a work of art.  
_

_ "You're a slippery bastard aren't you?" Joe asked watching the new band play. He wondered if he should invite them to a regular gig.  
_

_ "Umph, if you don't want to talk about it fine," Mac said taking the sour grapes stance, 'It's probably not in your line of expertise anyway."  
_

_ "Not in my line of expertise? I'll have you know that I am an expert in arts that have been lost to you and your modern compatriots for eons you intolerable child, I am a teacher of many things." He said pompously puffing his chest.  
_

_ He winked at Joe and said; "I could tell you about the Leprechauns."  
_

_ To his surprise Mac took the bait, "Leprechauns are real?" He asked incredulously.  
_

_ "And that ladies and gentlemen is my cue to leave, that cannot be topped and will always be remembered." He said sliding out of his characteristic oozing posture and sidling toward the door.  
_

_ Dimly Mac realized he'd been snookered and attempted to retaliate, "You bandy-legged pompous freeloading lazy . . ." He ran out of descriptions suitable for public and resorted to spluttering. Joe laughed and ordered another couple of beers._

Once they were satisfied that Methos would be safe sleeping alone they gathered in the kitchen.

"What the hell was that?" Richie asked voicing their thoughts.

"Mmm, well, it looked almost like he was receiving a quickening." Mac said.

"Yeah, except it looked like it was coming out of him almost, not into him. He tore off most of his clothes, I didn't think he was that strong." Joe said

"Do you think we should watch him tonight? You know, make sure that doesn't happen again?" Richie asked

"I don't think any of us will be able to sleep anyway so why don't we all just wait with him." Joe said.

Methos dreamed, he saw the face of his brother of a thousand years blood, Kronos. Kronos was trying to tell him something, Methos wasn't listening, he was trying to touch a woman, to grab her wrist and keep her from running, but he couldn't see her face. Kronos began shouting and the woman was getting further away, desperate Methos begged the woman to stop, she looked back at him over her shoulder but kept running. It was Cassandra, at the same time Kronos spun Methos around to face him and cut his throat.  
He woke screaming. His friends were awake at once. Joe was lying on a cot in the corner, Richie was sitting against the wall and MacLeod was sitting in a hard plastic chair.

MacLeod leaned over him.

"Methos?"

"What do you want you bloody Scot? What time is it?" Methos demanded sleepily, the dream had driven the night before, and the months before that from his mind. Mac stared at Methos dumbfounded.

"Oh, right." Methos said and sat up. The others stared at him blankly for a moment and then all began talking at once. He caught maybe one word in ten but he could tell they were happy and had been worried. He felt comforted and deeply weary.

"Calm down guys you're driving me crazy." He said, they immediately shut up and stared at him.

"Sorry, just a little joke, guess its not very funny huh?" he said offhandedly looking around for a bathrobe or some clothes.

"Hold it pal, you're not getting up until we get some answers and know for sure that what happened to you isn't going to happen again." Joe stated, preempting his friend's escape plan.

"What makes you think I want to tell you? Maybe its personal, you ever think of that?" Methos snapped peevishly.

"That's it? Do you know how long you're been here? Do you know how we found you or what condition you were in when we did? You've got some explaining to do, as well as some healing, you're not leaving here until you're much stronger. I won't have the world's oldest immortal die because of me." MacLeod snapped irritated.

"Good to know I'm loved huh?" Methos said surrendering. He briefly pondered pointing out that he wasn't the world's oldest immortal, he was his own, or that it wasn't actually Mac's fault Methos was lying there. But thought better of it, famous Scots guilt.

"Its going to take a while to tell you all of it, I want you to know that I remember everything. I know what you've done for me and what I did to you. I remember the Horsemen and I remember Walker, Joe, but it's going to be awhile before I can tell you everything. Can you handle that?" Solemnly each of the gathered men nodded. Methos nodded in acceptance and fell silent. He honestly didn't know where to start.

MacLeod watched him and sympathized, "Tell us what you can." He said softly.

Methos nodded and began

_"Leprechauns!" Methos, snorted and stumbled slightly on the curb. Catching himself he paused and took a deep breath of the damp midnight air. He briefly considered 'borrowing' Mac's car but figured that would exceed his weakly irritation allowance and possibly result in an early death. Instead he decided to walk to his flat. It wasn't too far and he could use a walk to clear the alcohol haze from his system.  
_

_ He tucked his hands into his coat and set out, clouds of his breath drifted in the air as he moved along. He hadn't been honest with Mac; he had had supernatural experiences in his life he just didn't wish to speak of them. His childhood, and his first master if he'd had one were all lost to the mists of time. He could not recall much of his life before his first quickening. In the roughly five thousand years since then he had lived hundreds of lives and known millions of people. Had hundreds, if not thousands of lovers, had seen mighty civilizations rise and fall. Ancient cities crumble to dust and entire races vanish from the face of the earth. Habit had made him mask the immense sorrow and age evident in his gaze at unguarded moments. His desire for survival was honed to a razor edge, the only thing that kept him from giving up like so many others. Even so he had offered his head to Mac when they first met. Methos smiled at the memory of that experience, even when he had attempted to trick Mac into killing him he had failed. Mac had seen through the ruse. _

_"MacLeod." He whispered to the sweet night air. He picked up his pace as the foggy air began to penetrate his clothing. The Ivanhoe thumped rhythmically against his thigh, it was a familiar and comforting weight. In a forever-changing world it helped to have something close and known like that. He felt it helped anchor him, reminding him of himself. As he breathed deeply he caught a scent. It was spicy and artificial, cologne or deodorant. _

_He frowned and kept his pace unchanged as he listened hard.Somewhere ahead he heard a faint creak and scrape. Someone was waiting for him, and someone else was behind him. Smoothly he reached down and loosened the Ivanhoe in its scabbard. He studied the layout of the street ahead of him; there was an alley to his right and an inset storefront to his left. He couldn't be sure which held his would be attacker. Frowning he flexed his hands and tensed his shoulders. _

_The attack came sooner than he expected. The first man struck him in the back of the legs; he had expected it would come from behind. He allowed his weight to fall on the man's shoulders and rolled on to his back, he did a handspring and landed on his feet drawing the Ivanhoe. He brought the pommel down on the back of the man's skull. All this had given the second man enough time to draw a bead on Methos. _

_The shot split the night air like a blade despite its silencer. It caught Methos high on the left shoulder; it knocked him off his feet. He struggled to regain his feet as the new man lashed out and kicked him in the solar plexus. Methos grunted and dropped to his face rolling away from his attacker. He crawled to his feet and leveled the sword at the new man. _

_He had felt a buzz from neither of the men. They were mortals and trained in combat. He bared his teeth and tried to run, far enough to heal and slip away. His opponent was nearly six feet tall; he wore black including gloves and a ski mask. Methos feigned pain in his shoulder although the wound had already healed. Tucking it back giving the appearance he wished to spare further injury. The man leveled his weapon at Methos once again. _

_"Who are you? Why are you doing this?" Methos gasped breathlessly. _

_Snatching up a piece of brick discarded at the curb he threw it at the man. He could see his sword a few feet away lying in the dim light of a flickering streetlamp. In answer the man shot him in the chest. Blinding pain exploded above his heart. The impact knocked him flat on his back, spread eagled. The Ivanhoe fell from his numbed hand. Weak and dying with no other plan but escape he tried to crawl away. He made it almost ten feet before the man stopped him. _

_He put his foot on Methos's back and pushed him to the ground. Methos screamed when his shattered chest struck the wet pavement. The man flipped him over and leveled the tunnel of his .45 at Methos's face. Calmly, deliberately, he pulled the trigger._

Mac shook his head, "So this person, whoever he was killed you?"

"Well, as dead as three point blank wounds from a .45 caliber handgun can make a person, yeah." Methos said flippantly.

"When I came to they had me strung up like those da Vinci drawings of the human body?" Methos continued.

_He awoke slowly; his first sight was of a scuffed and filthy concrete floor. Deep gauges scored the surface; something heavy had been dragged across it recently. Dimly he realized he was nearly naked and tied in a most untenable position. He was also very cold. Blood from his wounds had dribbled down his body and dripped off his heels onto the floor, forming a wide shallow puddle. Vaguely he wondered how he could have held so much liquid. A bright light was focused on him blinding and frightening him in a primal way. Beyond the light he could hear movement and voices. He concentrated on himself and his body. Performing a sort of mental diagnostic. He was too weak to fight or run. His wounds had healed but he was suffering from hypothermia. _

_"Welcome." A rich mellow voice called from beyond the light startling Methos. _

_Methos licked his lips and swallowed, his voice still croaked. _

_"Who?" He demanded lifting his head for a moment to give what he hoped was a defiant look in the general direction of the voice; weak he dropped his head once again. He couldn't muster the energy or concentration to speak in full sentences._

_ "No one of consequence to anyone but you my friend." The voice crooned. _

_"Who!" Methos demanded again, his voice cracking and erupting into ragged coughs._

_"Persistent I see, I am a cog, that is all, a simple tool in a long line of tools designed to bring you to heel." _

_"Weh. . .wha?" Methos gurgled desperately. _

_"Exactly my friend." _

_"Not friend." He snarled. _

_"That remains to be seen." All at once the light snapped off. _

_Methos felt a clammy fear crawl over his flesh.I can't see them coming, I can't see them in the dark. He thought wildly. A hand closed over his face and forced a chemical soaked cloth over his mouth and nose. In moments a fog shrouded his mind and ushered him into oblivion. _

_When he woke again he was still hanging but had been dressed and wrapped in blankets, he could feel a needle jabbing his right wrist. The light was still out and as far as he could tell no one was with him. Strangely he felt lonely more than afraid or angry. Somewhere in the fog of his drug induced sleep he had accepted that he would not leave this place alive. MacLeod and Richie would not come. Joe's Watchers would be no help Methos would die here. He didn't feel depressed more resigned. It was a curious feeling akin to his state of mind when he had offered himself to MacLeod. He felt stronger and desperately wished he could live. He ached to return to his life. _

_"I can be your friend or I can be your enemy, Kronos will look like a gentle companion composed of a well ordered mind once I am through with you, but only if you make me."_

_ It was the voice from before. Methos could not feel his hands or feet. _

_"Let me down." He said calmly imagining his numb hands around the voice's throat. _

_"I don't think so, we couldn't have you killing me and trying to run away could we?" _

_"Who are you?" Methos croaked he twitched his wrists and felt the pressure of the needle in his wrist bite. _

_"Mmm my name is not important." The voice continued in the same reasonable tone. _

_Methos tugged on the rope binding his right wrist it gave slightly. He kept talking to the voice while he struggled to free at least one hand. _

_"Please, why am I here? I don't know what you're talking about, or why you think you know me. I don't remember anything!"_

_ "A few thousand years pass and you completely abandon us? Now, that's not very loyal, is it?" Afraid and thinking rapidly Methosdecided to try to throw his captor off the scent. _

_"You psychotic bastard! I don't know you! I never knew you! You obviously know I am an immortal, but I have not been alive for thousands of years! I was born in the twenties, not the dawn of time!" He howled pulling at his bonds. _

_There, his right hand was free; he pulled it through the loop of rope and felt the bite of the needle pull free. He began working harder on his left hand and supporting his weight by gripping the loop of rope that had held his right hand. _

_"My, we are quite an accomplished liar, aren't we? Perhaps it will help if I call you Arctus?" _

_Methos had never heard the name before; although it was terribly familiar. It reminded him of how it feels when you've forgotten something terribly important, but simply can't remember what it was you've forgotten. He mouthed it to himself, Arc-toos. His left hand was slick with blood but he was gaining more freedom of movement. _

_"I've never heard that name, my name is Adam." He snapped keeping to his cover as student extraordinaire Adam Pierson. His left hand and forearmed burned. The wrist was numb but he had gained even more room, one last tug should do it. _

_"Let me go, I have powerful friends. They'll come for me, let me go." Methos begged, helplessly.  
Was this the voice of Death? He wondered insanely. He felt a bitter taste coat his mouth._

_ "I grow tired of this, guards, rebind our guest and make sure they're tight this time, I will hold your lives forfeit should he succeed in loosing his bonds once again." _

_Methos all but howled in frustration. He focused on the sounds around him. A ladder, he felt the weight leaning against the framework of his prison. It set the scaffold swinging slightly. Methos shifted his weight to accentuate the swing. Keeping his right hand in place to avoid spooking his prey he clenched his fist. Whoever it was leaned over him, he could feel the body heat. Lashing out with all his strength he aimed for what he hoped was the head or throat. He struck the person's larynx, there was a thick squishy crunch followed by a strangled cry as the person lost its grip and fell to the ground. _

_A wet crunch drifted up to Methos. Instantly the world was filled with light and shouts. Blinded Methos ducked his head and dangling by one hand tore at the leather straps binding his ankles. With unnatural strength accented by terror and survival instinct he snapped the straps and dropped to the floor. It was a long fall nearly thirty feet; his left ankle broke on impact._

_ Squinting around him he saw human shapes darting around the circle of light. His victim lay crumpled on the floor. He noted with regret that it had been a young woman. Her wide face was frozen in an expression of horrified pain. Others were coming toward him. Insane with fear and rage he darted out of the light in a fairly random direction. He collided with limbs as he ran; shouts and even gunshots rang out. He struck a wall with his shoulder and began running along it hoping to find a door. His elbow struck a doorknob painfully. He slid to a halt and tugged at it, locked. A stray bullet zinged off the plaster beside him. Hurling himself at the door Methos broke it loose from the frame and staggered into the light. _

_Running awkwardly and limping in pain from his badly healed ankle he tried to gain his bearings. He was on a pier in an unfamiliar area. Figures a mocking voice cried somewhere in his head, always an abandoned warehouse or pier. This wasn't abandoned he noted as he ran to the edge of the pier. A fresh logo was painted on its side. He dove headfirst into the water, a delicate swan dive of frantic clumsiness. Seconds later dozens of bullets struck the surface whirring and splitting the torrid water, several struck Methos, none fatally. _

_He jogged underwater reveling in the oddball immortal ability to breathe underwater until he judged enough time had passed. Carefully Methos broke the surface. The pier and its insane gun-toting occupants were nearly a mile behind him, though he noted uneasily that a small group was piling into a small motorboat. Irritated he ducked back under the surface and continued on._

"I must have gone probably ten miles that day, they came close but never found me. That was just the beginning; I almost made it back here. Came damn close, but they got me again." Methos said and fell silent.

Mac studied him for a moment. He was still gaunt, large black circles had camped out underneath his eyes and he had a wild look in his eyes. He watched Joe sit and stare at Methos, Richie looked at no one, only his hands. The young man stood up suddenly and looked around a bit frantically.

"Uh, anyone want some lunch or something? 'Cause I was going to make something . . . Methos?" Richie asked distractedly.

"Sure Ryan, whatever is fine." Methos said casually, he suspected young Ryan was suffering from an acute attack of sudden guilt.

"Ryan, its okay, I know." He said softly. Richie went rigid and slowly raised his head to meet Methos's eyes.

"You do?" he gasped. Methos nodded. Richie's face twisted, shock, relief, shame, and sorrow danced across it. Richie opened his mouth to say more but Methos interrupted him.

"Don't risk it kid, I'll explain it to him, and Ryan, I understand, I forgive you, but I don't trust you." He held the boy's gaze until Richie looked away, sadly Richie nodded.

The Highlander watched this exchange with an expression of slack- jawed incomprehension. His jaws flapped and he tried to gather his thoughts.

"Don't bother MacLeod, he can't talk about it." Methos said tiredly.

"What do you mean? What are you talking about? Do you think Richie did something to you? Somebody better start talking, right bloody now!" The irate Scot snapped.

"No, you thick skulled, temperamental, steel swinger, I mean he can't, now shut up and let me sleep, I'll tell you when I wake up." Methos growled and vanished under the covers.

An uneasy stunned silence descended over the men. Nervous Richie slipped into the hall and headed toward the kitchen. Joe watched him leave with a blank stare; vaguely he thought I'm too old for this shit anymore. MacLeod glared at Methos briefly and smiled, the old S.O.B. can still bug the hell out of me, he thought and saw the door close softly as Richie left. Joe and MacLeod followed him.

Richie picked up his bike helmet and sword from the kitchen table where he had left them in preparation for some errand running he'd had planned. Joe walked past Richie out onto the porch and stood leaning on a rail watching the marine traffic and sea birds below. MacLeod walked into the kitchen and stood leaning in the doorway. He watched Richie slip the sword and scabbard over his shoulder and tuck the helmet under his arm.

"Leaving?" Mac asked coldly. Slowly Richie raised his head and nodded.

"Why?" Mac asked in a friendlier tone and gripped the young man's unburdened shoulder. Richie stared at his teacher and friend, his brother and father, and swallowed hard.

He shook off Mac's hand and said, "I have to, you heard him, he doesn't trust me, neither will you when he tells you why. I . . ." He trailed off into momentary silence rubbing at his throat again. A red irritated mark was beginning to show on his neck it appeared to ring it.

"For what its worth I'm sorry Mac, and I won't be back." He pushed past Mac and started down the short hall to the front door.

"That's not good enough, I don't care what happened, we all make mistakes, if you really wanted Methos dead, you wouldn't have come here and helped him. If you just walk out of here, what are you proving?"

"I don't want to prove anything, Mac, I just want to go, ok?" He said still heading for the door.

"Richie, you _are _trying to prove something, why else did you come back? To prove that you're still a good person, to prove that Methos is still your friend, if you leave now, you'll lose all that."

"You don't get it Mac, its gone all ready, I came back to see if he would remember what happened, I came back to . . .to see if it was too late, and . . .it is. So I'm leaving now." He said softly pausing outside Methos's room.

MacLeod remained silent as he left the house, distantly Mac heard his bike start and roar out of the driveway. Joe walked back in off the porch and sat heavily at one the chairs. Painfully he laid his cane across his knees and looked at Mac.

"Now what? Save the kid?" he asked. Mac ignored him for a moment deep in thought. Finally he looked up.

"We have to hear Methos out, then maybe we can get Richie to come back. I don't know . . .When did everything get so complicated huh, Joe?" Mac asked flopping into a chair next to his graying friend.

In Methos's dreams he was back in the warehouse the faceless voice demanding things from him again. Demanding to know why he had failed. Why he had betrayed his people. Screaming and frantic he pleaded, again he was helpless and begging. Again none would listen. They pulled his limbs taught and began to arrange their toys on shiny steel platters blades, flames, acid, drugs, and of course electrical probes. He broke into a sweat and tried to flee but it was as if he were made of lead. The pale feminine hand reached for the acid and he screamed . . .

He woke in a cold sweat Joe and Mac were leaning over him; Mac was supporting him with one hand on his back. He gasped and stared around for a moment before gaining his bearings and relaxing, or rather trying to relax. Despite his orders his body remained rigid not trusting that he was safe. Breathing deeply and murmuring a meditative chant he leaned back into his pillows. For the first time he wondered whose room he was in.

"Ok now?" Mac asked as he sat in a chair that had been brought in and pulled next to his bed while he slept, Joe sat in another next to Mac.

Methos nodded and closed his eyes briefly. The memories were so sharp and painful that he buried them deep lest he go mad. Still like the razors they were they worked their way to the surface. Slicing through any flesh in the way.

"Richie go?" He asked somewhat rhetorically. Mac nodded.

"Fine, do you want me to go on?" He asked. Neither man answered at first, MacLeod motioned to a T.V. tray set up with water and soup. Methos regarded it blankly for a moment and then shook his head.  
. _  
Methos staggered into the street. Night had fallen while he hid from his pursuers. His first destination was Joe's, then he would leave town and start over. He didn't have a choice anymore. He was only a few blocks away now. Gasping in pain from his badly healed ankle and weak from blood loss and fear he dragged on.  
_

_ Only a block from the bar he paused to catch his breath. He felt the familiar buzz of an immortal's presence, a very young immortal. Immediately he cursed the loss of his sword. Hopefully it was only Richie, if it was anyone else he would have to hide or bluff. He scanned the street for a suitable place. He spotted a fire escape and staggered toward its dangling ladder; he didn't know how he could reach it.  
_

_ Richie Ryan stepped out of the shadows and into the pale yellow light reflected from the dim streetlamps scattered along the block. Immediately Methos relaxed.  
_

_ "Richie, what are you doing out here?" Methos gasped leaning against a pitted brick wall and catching his breath.  
_

_ "Looking for you." Richie said. He stood at an awkward angle. His right side facing the ancient man almost a fighting stance. Methos's radar went off and he tensed. Not soon enough it turned out. Richie lifted his arm he held a pistol. Methos couldn't tell the exact caliber in the uncertain light, but it was large, a .35 at least. Richie's eyes pleaded for forgiveness even as he pulled the trigger and shattered his friend's heart.  
_

_ "Erk." Methos squalled before being knocked backward into a pile of trash. Richie dropped the gun and fell to his knees. Distantly he heard a car door slam. An angry red mark circled his throat it appeared to be an abrasion. Which was impossible, any minor wound would heal almost instantly.  
_

_ A man jogged into the alley followed by a team of men. Working efficiently the team injected Methos with a sedative, bound his limbs and dropped him into a trunk. They saluted the other man and ignored Richie as they leaped into the car and drove off. The man turned to Richie expectantly.  
Richie ignored him staring at the gun with a blank expression. Finally he seemed to realize that some sort of response was expected from him. Disjointedly he picked up the weapon and offered it the other man.  
_

_ Ryan's companion was an even six feet tall. His features were thin, and angular, piercing cobalt eyes set above a smallish razor like nose and a close cut crop of black hair set off his strong jaw and wide shoulders. He looked strong, more importantly he looked dangerous.  
_

_ The blue-eyed stranger regarded the proffered weapon with an air of mild interest before finally accepting it. He eyed young Ryan the way a scientist might study a lab rat infected with a particularly virulent strain of Ebola and left to die in a cage; a sort of clinical sadism.  
_

_ "You can go for now, but remember we own you." He smirked and turned on his heel.  
_

_ "Wait!" Richie called returning for a moment to himself.  
_

_ The stranger laughed and kept walking. Cursing Richie stared after him as he faded into the shadows. He stared at the pool of blood seeping into the sludge smeared on the ground. Shivering he looked into the sky; a few stars pierced the gray shroud.  
_

_ Methos opened his eyes and coughed hoarsely. The lighting was dim; he could feel he was bound again. Wherever he was he was warmer, he took a deep breathe, and smelled only damp wood and humid air. That was bad, he'd been moved, and the air in Seacouver was never this warm or humid, not in February. Still coughing he tried to focus his eyes; he seemed groggier than he should have been.  
_

_ One of the benefits to his age was that he had died in an amazing number of different ways. He had been shot and stabbed through the heart an incredible number of times. Drawing on those experiences and memories he realized he was far more incapacitated than he should have been.  
_

_ His mouth tasted cottony and foul, drugs he surmised. Abruptly he thought of Richie. Why? Obviously he wasn't head hunting, then what? He hadn't wanted to do that. Methos prided himself on being an excellent judge of character-yet another benefit of age he thought dourly, and Ryan was not the sort of person to jump an opponent. He again tried to see his surroundings. His eyes hurt as well, they burned and ached.  
_

_ "Ahh, I see you have awakened." Methos froze it was the voice again, the cursed voice from the warehouse.  
_

_ "Don't bother trying to see where you are, you have been drugged and acid has been poured on your eyes. I think you will find escaping from here an interesting challenge once you're blind. You see we've no idea if your sight will fully recover. Presumably your healing ability will see to it that you do. But, then we've discovered that certain injuries to the head and neck have a harder time healing than others for your kind, I guess we'll find out, hmm?" It ended jovially.  
_

_ "You did what?" Methos croaked, he could see the logic of it, but the pain was beginning to become acute as the sedative wore off.  
_

_ "Don't act surprised my dear boy, you have done far worse in your long life, surely you see the wisdom in incapacitating and weakening a subject?" Methos remained silent. The pain was agonizing-daggers of pain lanced through his skull. Desperately his eyes began to tear trying to rid themselves of the destructive substance. His cheeks and face were soon wet but the pain did not abate. He arched his back and tugged at his bonds. They were handcuffs faintly he heard a metallic clank. Unable to focus his mind due to the pain he simply writhed and tugged. Some part of his mind told him it would be a poor idea to scream, he ignored this advice and howled.  
_

_ The owner of the voice watched his subject's contortions and screams. A blank expression settled over his features, his blue eyes gleamed hungrily. He reached for a scalpel lying on a tray with several other instruments of his trade. He held it edge up and watched light play along its length.  
_

_ "Give him a dose of sedative in an hour, enough to stop the screaming but not dull the pain. I have work to do." He commanded to the apparently empty room and stepped toward Methos._

MacLeod blanched and seemed to collapse into himself although his posture didn't change. Joe stared at Methos for a moment before reaching out and gripping his upper arm fiercely. Methos wouldn't raise his eyes to meet theirs. His flesh crawled at Joe's touch and he struggled to suppress the urge to pull away. Sensing his friend's reluctance to accept physical contact Joe released him.

"He was right . . . I have done worse . . . I would have done that if I had ever thought of it." He said softly.

MacLeod moved as though to speak. Perhaps to deny Methos's confession, but he realized the futility of such a gesture and remained silent.

"I don't know how long it lasted. He was a master whoever he was. He would keep me barely sedated, just enough to keep me fairly quiet. Never letting me pass out for more than a few seconds and never letting me die."

_ Hours turned into days and days into weeks. Methos wouldn't break. This bothered his blue-eyed demon, never before had a subject resisted him so before. Granted this one had a unique past and untold strengths. Frowning he shifted the electrode from his right to his left hand and fiddled with the amperage. Electricity was always a difficult tool with these creatures. It was unpredictable at best, dangerous for the wielder and it could kill the immortal.  
_

_ Smiling he turned off the electrode and began gathering his equipment. He would try something new he decided. He piled his paraphernalia on a trolley and left the room whistling cheerfully.  
_

_ As silence descended Methos relaxed. He had been functioning on primal instincts and broken awareness for God only knew how long. In the brief spaces when the man he had dubbed Baal ceased his hideous ministrations he fought to heal and rest his sanity. Pain thudded and rocketed through his exhausted frame. Each and every portion of his body had been pierced, burned, crushed, broken, sliced, and electrocuted. His vision was still damaged everything he saw was blurred. Whether due to the injury, sweat, blood, or tears, he couldn't tell. His throat was raw and bled occasionally, no doubt due to his screams.  
_

_ Eventually he had discovered that he was bound to a flat steel table, secured by handcuffs and shackles. The table appeared to be bolted to the floor, at least it had never broken loose during his struggles or seizures. He thought he had an I.V. somewhere providing nourishment and drugs designed to calm Methos when Baal insisted on asking more of his mad questions. If Methos knew the answers he would have given them, had tried to. Baal didn't seem to be interested in immortals as a whole or even in particular. He seemed satisfied with what he knew already. Instead he wanted to know about MacLeod and Ahriman, Methos and his life with the Horsemen and other inane pieces of information. Methos got the feeling when he thought about the infrequent interrogation sessions that Baal wasn't looking for the answers to his questions. He was looking for something else maybe Methos's reactions to the questions. Grateful for a respite from the unending agony however short Methos closed his eyes.  
_

_ The blue-eyed man left Methos alone for nearly a week. Allowing his taxed body to heal and his active mind to mull over the events of the last few weeks. He would allow his subject enough time to regain his strength and mental capacities. Even enough time to gain some idea of who and what the man and his companions were and their agenda. Then he would spring the final phase of his plan. His thin lips stretched in a hideous expression of satisfaction. His feminine fingers tapped along his prominent cheekbone as he lost himself in satisfying daydreams.  
_

_ A few days later as Methos lay lightly dozing mulling over his situation Baal returned. During his vacation as Methos thought of it he had come to several conclusions: One, Baal knew a hell of a lot about Methos and MacLeod. Two, Richie Ryan must have told Baal which meant Baal must have forced it from him just as he had forced Ryan to shoot Methos. Three, Baal wasn't trying to find out what Methos knew he was trying to find out what Methos didn't know, and Four. Methos had to find out how Baal had broken Richie and why. At the root of it all was the why, Baal was going to a great deal of trouble, Methos had to find out why. Methos could feel Baal staring at him but refused to open his eyes.  
_

_ "I have decided to try something new with you." Methos didn't reply.  
_

_ "Are you familiar with sensory deprivation?" Baal asked sweetly.  
_

_ "It is a process in which a subject is shut off from stimuli. It is used among other things to train assassins and perform interrogations. Its quite effective but often results in the subject losing any grip on reality." Determined Methos remained impassive unmoving. Baal smiled his twisted thin-lipped smirk and leaned over Methos.  
_

_ "Good night." He said simply. Immediately a large dose of drugs began to filter through the I.V. incapacitating the immortal._

"I don't really remember what happened after that, just glimpses, I think they put me in a tank of water in the dark. Somewhere in there they must have grown tired or found out what they needed. Anyway, they let me go I don't know where. All I can remember is how bright the sun was and trying to find a dark place." Methos finished and picked up the now tepid bowl of broth.

His companions sat thinking. Joe stood and shook his head angrily.

"How, Methos? How did they get to Richie?" he asked gruffly rubbing his hand along the top of his cane.

"Ahh, now that is interesting. Apparently this madman has developed some sort of device, a collar of sorts that is implanted under the subcutaneous tissue on an immortal's . . ."

"Neck . . "MacLeod interrupted horrified.  
"

Clever boy." Methos said offhandedly and gulped some soup, a small amount dribbled down his chin.

"Holy God . . ." Joe whispered and made the sign of the cross. The magnitude of the intelligent evil behind such a decision nauseated the Watcher. He swallowed hard and an unbidden image of young Richie's head blown clean off his neck leapt to mind.

"How . . ." Began MacLeod.

"Do they monitor it? I don't know I suspect its programmed to go off at key phrases or signals, I never really had a chance to check." Methos said.

The room was silent for a moment. Methos finished his meal and sat back. MacLeod seemed to be deep in thought or perhaps memory. Joe was pale he sat and fidgeted with his cane.

"We have to find Richie, or these people, we have to do something." MacLeod said finally.

"Wrong, you have to." Methos said pulling blankets over his shoulders.

Mac moved as though to stand, to argue. Joe put a hand on his arm and shook his head. Mac stared at him for a moment unconvinced finally he nodded and they left the room.

"Let him be Mac, he's been through the ninth gate of hell. I can't blame him for not wanting to help Richie or face those guys again."

"I know that, and I'm sorry, its just, can you imagine Richie killing him. Knowing the kind of people that would take him?"

"No, I can't. That doesn't change the fact that he did. Look Mac it was him or Methos, it wasn't like he had a choice!" Joe said and paused looking at his old friend for a moment.

"If you want to do something go find Richie, get his side of the story, if you can. We're going to need all the help we can get to stop these guys."

Mac didn't reply for a moment simply glaring at Joe, "Fine, what are you going to do in the meantime?"

"I'm gonna call in some favors and warn the tribunal about these guys. I may be retired but I'm still a Watcher. Mac, they'll listen and they might even help." Joe snapped.

"Yeah with a little bloodshed and some arm-breaking." Mac muttered turning away from Joe and striding into his own room.

The Watcher's system had been helpful in the past. But the individual Watchers and their hierarchy had at best been a nuisance, at worst death squads. MacLeod thought about his friend Jakob Galati, about James Horton the renegade and murderer, and about the fiasco of a trial for Joe that had nearly resulted in both of their executions. Yeah, Joe's information was usually helpful but the Watchers themselves were about as useful as a guillotine.

Mac would find Richie and get some answers but he doubted the Watchers would be any help at all, quite the opposite. Joe simply watched him go. For someone nearly five hundred years old he rarely thought things through. He had a mental image of suicidal Lancelot charging off to kill people he barely knew for people he didn't much appreciate. He knew that wasn't fair, Mac was a just person, when he was wrong he was drastically deadly wrong, but he wasn't wrong often. Still he got damned annoying with his holier than thou crap and holy crusades. Joe couldn't count the number of times he had rushed off to whack some guy without a plan or backup. Joe closed his eyes; it was hard watching your oldest friend constantly risk his life just to earn the right to live another day.

Abruptly he thought of Ahriman. Mac nearly killed Richie that night; only Richie's reflexes had saved his life. Blocking a deadly blow from Mac's katana as he desperately fought the Zoroastrian demon Ahriman. Ahriman, bent on the destruction of the world it was driving Mac insane masquerading as all of his nightmares.

Kronos leader of the Horsemen, Horton the renegade watcher who had slaughtered Darius and dozens of other immortals and Richie, turned to evil. Mac defeated Ahriman, as he crushed all his enemies. That didn't make it any easier to watch him charge off to combat where only one could walk away with a head. Joe thought of Methos and what he had told Joe and MacLeod of the Horsemen. The four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Methos who was Death and the brains of the operation, Kronos who was Pestilence and leader of the band, Caspian and Silas were Famine and War, they were simply killers. MacLeod had faced them, killing Caspian and Kronos, finally accepting Methos. Methos killed Silas with his own hands. Silas the simplest of the Horsemen and the closest thing Methos had had to a friend during their thirteen hundred year reign of terror. Methos had killed him. Joe wondered at the kind of man that could make that kind of moral journey. That could go from a calculating killer, a soulless torturing demon to a mild scholar who avoided combat as much as possible to the point of running from an enemy for hundreds and even thousands of years. What kind of man was that? Joe shook his head. MacLeod appeared holding his katana and a duffel bag.

"I'm going after him, call me if you find out anything. I'll try to be back soon; if I'm not back in a day have Amanda stand guard. Just tell her I asked you, she'll come." He said heading for the door.

"Mac." Joe called. The immortal stopped and faced him. His eyes looked shadowed, hunted, and hurt.

"Be careful huh?" Mac didn't bother replying he stepped out into a light drizzle and closed the door.

Methos dreamed, he remembered more when he dreamed but he fought the memories. One of the lessons he had learned in his long life was that some things were well worth forgetting. Yet another lesson was that some things once forgotten could resurface in the most painful and dangerous of ways. He was back in the room. Baal wasn't there, he still couldn't see but he could move. He sat up and tried get off the table. There was no floor,l just a vast cold space. He pulled his legs up and stared around. There were no walls either. He wasn't afraid, it seemed okay that there were no walls that there was no ceiling and he was alone. Then he realized why, Baal wasn't there and neither was his tray, or the I.V. He felt safe and relaxed, odd.

Then it started, a sort of low grinding noise. It grew in volume until he could make out individual voices. It was screaming, thousands of voices screaming in pain and fear. To his horror they were familiar, Cassandra's voice, Silas's crying for mercy, and countless others, his victims. They began to meld into one awful noise assaulting him with a physical power battering him numbing his ears. Finally they began to fade into one voice -his own voice begging and howling for mercy from Baal. Justice his dream self whispered. And closed his eyes. Justice. He opened them and he was in his room.

His bedding was soaked with sweat. His muscles were quivering and twitching with pent up energy. Carefully Methos peeled away the wet bedding and dropped his feet to the floor. His clothing was transparent with liquid. Disgusted he peeled off his shirt and let it drop with a depressing splat to the floor. A pile of clothes sat on Joe's chair. He reached over and snagged it. Smiling at Joe's choices he slipped out of his remaining sweaty clothes and into the new ones.

Joe sat on the balcony watching the bay. A small tugboat was towing a massive oil tanker through the tricky maze of sandbars blocking the mouth of the bay. Dozens of gleaming white fishing boats reflected the watery winter light. A sharp salt breeze ruffled his gray streaked hair before seeking a more malleable playmate. He seemed sitting in thought to be more a statue than a man. Limping and pale Methos opened the thin screen door and stepped onto the warped cedar planks. He was bare foot and his shirt hung loose and unbuttoned. He leaned on the weather-beaten railing and stared.

Joe didn't move. That was fine Methos didn't feel like talking anymore. Apparently Mac had chosen his usual tactic, rush off and try to fix things. He didn't much care, he was tired, deeply tired, his spirit, his instincts told him to let it be. He sighed and pulled a rusted wrought iron chair up to the railing. Joe watched his friend slump into the chair, he noted wryly that the ancient adopted his usual boneless posture. Damn cat man; he thought vaguely watching Methos's near feline contentment in simply sitting. They sat that way until sunset. The sun seemed to leap suicidally into the icy winter sea, quenching its fiery colors in gunmetal gray rippling waters. Somehow this sight pleased Methos, the dull orange red fading into the pleasing rhythm. Joe shivered and stood leaning heavily on his cane. Methos glanced up at him, noting for the first time how much older he seemed than when they had last met. His hair was much grayer, actually white in places and he relied on his cane more. A faint shadow of sorrow gripped him when he realized he was going to loose Joe very soon. A part of him wanted to rail at the cruel unfairness of it. Joe was the only man who knew Methos's past and hadn't judged him. Had instead attempted to understand him. Methos would deeply miss him. He watched the musician flee the encroaching night and disappear inside. Methos remained sprawled barefoot and bare-chested. He knew it wasn't a healthy decision, but he wanted to be cold, to be bare. He wanted to be forced to shiver and react to cold. He needed to be reminded that he could react, he could feel, because he was alive.

Only he hadn't shivered once. The cold seeped into him and seemed to become part of him. He smirked and wondered if he was getting hypothermia. Finally as the last of the stars peered above the horizon he went inside.


	2. Part Two Actions

When he walked in Joe was ordering pizza. Methos leaned on the countertop mimicking Joe's posture as he placed the order.

"Yeah two large."

"No, I don't want anchovies, I said supreme, not suffering."

"Well, I don't care if its gonna take two hours take the damn things off the pizza."

"Come on man, this is not rocket science its pizza."

Methos watched contentedly as Joe battled the pizza man for another ten minutes finally convincing him that it was okay to have a supreme with no anchovies and picking up a twelve pack of beer on the way to the delivery would not be a bad choice.

"You realize now of course that you're going to have to give him a huge tip." Methos said folding his arms in what he hoped was a suitably authoritative manner.

"Yeah, still it'll be worth it. I haven't had a meal that was truly bad for me since I got here. Mac and his taste in food, I tell you." Joe chuckled.

"What no yak butter?" Methos asked innocently. Joe pointedly ignored him and wandered into the living room. Methos tagged along although at a slower pace, he realized with chagrin that his little act of defiance was going to cost him. His weakened muscles tingled and burned in the warm air and were seizing up, stiffening. He limped into the room and collapsed in a heap on a couch still shrouded in a sheet. In fact all the furniture was.

Joe watched Methos with a weird sense of normalcy. He wondered if all the old man's friends had gotten used to the sly devil deftly installing himself in the most comfortable position in any given room. He also noted the condition of the room.

"Guess they weren't doing a lot of relaxing." Joe sighed and pulled a sheet off another couch. Nearly an inch of dust covered every inch of the room. Methos sneezed and eyed Joe pointedly.

"Have a seat Martha, some of us have to breathe too." He said and patted his couch, which resulted in an explosion of dust. Coughing and laughing they both staggered out the room waving hands in front of their faces.

"Well, aren't we a pair?" Joe laughed. They ended up camping in the front room. Methos called it stalking the pizza man. Joe told him to shut up and put on some clothes. Methos had to agree he was actually cold. He made his slow way to his room and rummaged in a spare dresser for a sweater. He hit the jackpot a sweater several pairs of socks and miraculous of all slippers. Grinning he dressed and walked back to the front room.

Joe was just plugging in a television. Methos laughed in surprise.

"I wasn't even sure Mac ever owned a T.V." He said. Joe arched an eyebrow at him.

"Well, it appears the all knowing one isn't." Joe smirked. Methos gave him a look and vanished into the house. He reappeared a few minutes later with a pair of chairs.  
They set about getting seriously comfortable. Then the pizza delivery arrived complete with not one but two cases of beer. They then set about getting seriously drunk.

Richie rode until dawn. The dull roar of the bike's engine and the same pattern of lines on the road sort of hypnotized him, he liked that it meant he didn't have to think. He wondered which was more important forgiveness or trust. He supposed forgiveness, because Methos probably wouldn't come hunting for his head. For the millionth time he wondered if Mac would also forgive him. Probably, he owed Richie that much, he'd tried to kill him, what, three, four times? Richie was sick of pandering to the perfect immortal. Always having to live up to a code that even MacLeod couldn't fulfill.

"I'm not Jesus." He told the wind and gunned the engine.

His sword handle gleamed in the growing light. He glanced over his shoulder and caught its glint out of the corner of his eye. He bared his teeth and increased his speed again. Killing, that's all any of them did. They killed each other, just to live, so Richie had shot Methos, betrayed him, just to live. In a weird way he'd figured Methos would understand, after five thousand years he'd seen everything and still wanted to survive. Apparently he was right. Trust he wondered, what the hell was that? If Methos didn't trust him why did he let him go? To avoid the MacLeod wrath? Somehow he doubted that MacLeod would win if it came to combat. Methos liked being alive, thousands of corpses could tell the Highlander that.

Mac had spotted Richie driving ahead of him after three hours of searching; he hadn't felt the young immortal so was pretty sure Richie hadn't spotted him. Mac hung back. If Richie saw him and didn't feel like a chat he could outdistance the Highlander in a heartbeat on his hopped up race bike. There was no way he could keep up or even close the gap. He decided he would follow Richie until he decided to stop for a break. Numb Richie finally pulled into a cheesy hotel. He could pay twenty-five an hour or fifty for twenty-four. He glared at the concierge and snatched his key, spitting on the 'lobby' floor as he exited. He was in no mood to be insulted or hustled. He snatched open the door of his room. He was greeted with dingy décor nicely coated with grime and dust. He kicked the door shut locked and bolted it and dropped onto the bed. Despite its quality he was asleep in moments.

Mac pulled into the Weary Travelers Rest Home gagging at the title and shut off the car. He would need gas soon. He sat and studied the heap before him. His neck and shoulders ached from driving and fatigue. His eyes burned and his legs were numb. Gingerly he climbed out and stretched. He fingered the hilt of his katana and walked toward the front desk.  
The man sitting at the desk was grotesquely fat and slimy. Great he thought anymore evil stereotypes lurking anywhere? Of course he was buried in the obligatory nudie magazine. Mac leaned on the desk and thumped the bell with his fist. Slowly the blob raised its eyes from the inviting two- dimensional fantasies and focused on Mac's unhappy demeanor.

"Yes?" It croaked expectantly.

"I'm looking for someone."

"Sure, lots a people are lookin for other people, what makes yours special?" He asked glancing down at his magazine.

"This someone is young, blonde, male, came in on a bike any ideas?" Mac growled, he was too tired to want to deal with this.

"Sure, mean tempered guy, curly hair right? I gave him 4A." The blob said and reached for his magazine. Mac gripped his pudgy wrist.

"Key?" He asked coldly, the blob glared briefly at the Highlander's fist before meeting his eyes and immediately reaching for the spare key.

"Don't make a mess huh?" He said as he handed it over. Mac snatched it and stomped out. The blob shook his head at the retreating immortal and turned back to his magazine.

Mac considered his options, he could barge in, but that might get one of them killed. He could get close enough to sense Richie and let him come out on his own. Or he could disable his bike and then wait for him to come out. He tossed the key and considered. Finally he decided to slash the bike's tires and barge in. He had to talk to Richie and he would give him enough time to wake up before he came in.

Richie woke to the buzz of an incoming immortal groggy and stiff he sat up and reached for his sword. Gripping it he slid off the bed and into the bathroom. He waited expectantly. He heard a key in the lock and cursing at the deadbolt. It was a familiar voice.

"Damnit Mac can't you just stay the hell away from me? Just once!" He snarled as a dull crump and clatter informed him that the door had been forced. He stepped out of the bathroom and faced his teacher across the ratty hotel bed.

Mac stood in the doorway silhouetted by sunlight, de ja vu thought Richie. He didn't put down his sword neither did Mac.

"Are you going to challenge me?" Richie asked coldly.

"Do you want me to?" Mac asked in return.

This struck Richie as a novel idea, and strangely appealing. Was that what he wanted? Mac to kill him so he wouldn't have to face Methos, wouldn't have to try to explain, to try to regain the lost trust? Did he want Mac to help him take the easy way? It suddenly irritated him that MacLeod could assume that Richie didn't just want to die he wanted Mac to kill him.

"Is that what you think? Or are you trying to finish what you started when I broke into the antique shop?!" Richie snarled and leapt at Mac.

Mac blocked automatically. He didn't want to hurt Richie, never had. He hadn't realized just how much pain Richie was in. He had a right to hate Mac, that was undeniable, but Mac never thought it would come to this. He resolved to win, but not to kill Richie, to defeat him and bring him to his senses.

They fought wildly, Richie was trying everything he could think of to distract Mac, to disarm and shame him. He used the environment to his advantage forcing Mac to maneuver around the furniture. He slashed open a pillow and hurled it at Mac.

Mac dodged and slashed blocking Richie and aiming to weaken and disarm him. Only one blow had landed slicing across the young man's chest. Blood soaked his clothing and stained his jeans. Beads of sweat stood out on his face.

Desperate Richie drew on all his resources and strength and lunged. His blow didn't land.

Mac watched in horror as Richie was suddenly wracked with spasms. He screamed and dropped face down and lay twitching. Mac turned him over and watched horrified as the boy's neck writhed and twitched. The tissue and muscles distending. Tiny bolts of lightning played across the younger man's body. Finally mercifully it ceased.  
Richie lay gasping. Mac sat hunched next to him supporting him.

"How long Richie?" He asked softly gripping his friend's hand.

"Just after Ahriman." He whispered and erupted into a fit of coughing.

"I'm so sorry Richie." Mac whispered and pulled Richie to him.

"I can't go back Mac, I can't look at him, and at what . . .I did to him." He said pulling away.

"Richie, you have to, you owe him, and you owe them. You aren't alone. He forgives you Richie. He isn't happy with what happened but he understands. Please Richie, we have to stop them we have to help you. You can't live like this you can't even defend yourself. They did this to you, and to him this isn't your fault Richie." Mac said.  
With Mac's help he stood.

"You don't understand Mac, I can't talk about it, I can think about it, I can remember it, but if I talk about it or try to fight someone, that happens. Its how they . . .kept me docile . . .kept me from trying to escape . . ." He said coughing softly; flecks of blood stained his lips.

"The people who took Methos they took you?" Mac asked

Richie nodded Mac slipped an arm around him and half dragged half carried him out of the hotel.

"That settles it, if they did half of what they did to him to you he'll understand, he'll help you." Mac said helping Richie to sit.

"They didn't do anything but this to me Mac, they didn't have to." Richie said not looking Mac in the eye.

"They can only do this to young immortals less than a hundred years old." He said. Mac paused considering this. If Richie had been implanted with something, which seemed the likeliest explanation it could be possible that an immortal's quickening would fight its affects, maybe destroy it if its electrical.

"Rest Richie, we'll figure it out in the end, we're going back." Richie remained silent. He knew nothing was resolved; nothing had been fixed between them. Everything had been postponed. Richie was still angry. Angry that he had failed MacLeod. Angry that Mac expected so much. Angry that he'd been caught and mutilated, angry that he'd been cheated of a normal life, and angry that he'd betrayed a friend. Cold and hurting he pulled his anger close like an old friend and went to sleep.

Joe waited until they were both nicely buzzed and drugged Methos. It wasn't really that hard. He poured a few chemicals into a beer and handed it to the sleepy immortal and watched him down it. In a few minutes he was snoring loudly and contentedly. Joe watched him for a moment marveling at the power of sleep and reached for the phone.

"This is Joe Dawson. I've gotta talk to the tribunal." He paused listening to whoever was on the other end of the phone. Tiny distorted cries echoed from the receiver.

"Of course I know they don't want to talk to me. It's about immortals, someone's been asking a lot of questions. They even captured and tortured an immortal." The tiny cries ceased. Joe waited patiently while he was transferred to another line.

No I am not lying you bureaucratic weasel! Now put me through! No I don't feel like giving you the details! Put me through or I'll handle it on my own!" That was a flat out lie but it got the desired effect.

"Yes its true, now listen up, I'll tell you all I know." Joe spent an hour on the phone.

"I told you I wouldn't tell you which immortals have been affected by these people."

"Because you don't need to know!"

"You'd better do something Goddamnit! You owe these people! Remember the war?! If you don't help them they could be wiped out, or worse controlled by humans with their own ideas for the Prize! Do something now so you won't have to pay for it later!" Joe snarled and slammed the phone down. Maybe Mac was right about the Watchers, they didn't seem to have the balls to do anything except screw up until it was too late. He rubbed his temples and pondered his next move. Maybe he should call Amanda for backup just in case some roving immortal got it into his head to pick a fight. He glanced at Methos still blithely snoring away. He picked up the receiver again.

_ Baal was leaning over him his eyes were cold and insane he was asking him a question. Methos couldn't hear the words he could only see his mouth moving. He wanted to scream to make him speak up.  
_

_ "Tell me about your Father, tell me about your Father . . ." Baal kept repeating unending. My father? I never had a Father none of us ever had a Father . . . Methos wondered.  
Baal's mouth kept moving up and down the but words were garbled they made no sense. Methos tried to get away he wasn't chained anymore he ran. He ran out of the light and into the darkness. Baal's voice ricocheted distorting and echoing as Methos ran faster and faster, his chest burned and his throat was raw.  
_

_ "Tell me about your past! Tell me who you are! Tell me where you come from! Tell me!" The voice roared. It twisted and fought its way into his psyche the words became garbled it changed to a different language completely, his first language._

Joe watched Methos sleep he was twitching and moaning. Joe pondered waking the immortal but decided to let him sleep. Nightmares or no Methos wasn't strong and he needed to rest. He returned to watching the evening news.

He looked over at Methos again. He'd broken out in a light sweat and was moaning again. His hands jerked and gripped his jeans spastically. Joe frowned Methos's color didn't look too good. He limped over to his side and took the immortal's pulse. It was rapid and weak if Joe didn't know better he would think the immortal was desperately ill or having a heart attack. Concerned he began shaking Methos trying to wake him.

_ Baal gripped his shoulder; his touch was ice his fingers flame. Methos screamed and fought to break away. He was pinned; Baal looked into his eyes and laughed._

Methos opened his eyes he realized he was screaming. Joe was holding his shoulder. Methos lashed out knocking Joe to the ground, crazed with fear and the remnants of the dream he leapt up and ran. He ran brokenly stumbling and striking the walls in the hall. His bare feet slapped the cold tiled floor. Joe managed to get to his feet and limped after his friend.

He found him on the balcony he was staring at the rocks below leaning against the railing and dangling his arms over the edge. Barefoot and desperate he stood breathing heavily sweat gleaming on his arms and face.

"Methos?" Joe asked tentatively.

"S'okay Joe, sorry I hit you." Methos said his voice was flat and toneless, utterly neutral.

"Nightmare?" Joe asked walking closer and joining Methos at the rail.

"Something like that." He said and laughed, a bitter wisp of a laugh utterly devoid of mirth.

"You ever remember things when you dream Joe?" he asked suddenly raising his head and staring off at the black water.

Joe thought about that for a moment before answering, "Not really, occasionally, a detail, or a phone call I'd forgotten to make." He said still concerned about Methos's mental health. The paradox of that thought caught him across the forehead and he nearly burst into laughter. Being concerned about the mental health of a man who not only admitted he'd ridden as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse but had been alive for at least five thousand years struck Joe as grimly entertaining, and futile.

Methos didn't reply for a moment eyes focusing on a distant shape on the water. "No, I mean something about yourself, that you really shouldn't have forgotten in the first place." He said in the same flat voice only his accent lent life to the words.

"You can go back inside Joe, and call off the dogs. I know who I am, I can stop this." He said suddenly. He looked Joe in the eye and Joe knew without a doubt that Methos was completely sane and very alone.

"How?" Joe asked blocking the entrance into the house.

"By killing our creator Joe, its that simple, God has come back to town and he wants to start rolling dice again." He said coldly and elbowed Joe out of the way. Joe stumbled and caught himself angry he turned to Methos.

"You may be the oldest immortal you old bastard, but you don't know everything, unless you start making sense you're never going to leave this house!"

"You going to stop me Joe? How?" Methos said sorrowfully.

"Just let me go Joe, no one will blame you, you can't stop me." He added.

Joe stood his ground unwilling to give up. Methos very gently and with surprising strength moved him out of the way. Joe watched him walk into the house. Angry and hurt and  
seeing no other choice he followed Methos. Seeing an opportunity he raised his cane and brought it crashing down on the back of Methos's head, or rather he tried to. Methos had anticipated such an attack and simply sidestepped and grasped the cane wrenching it from Joe's grip. He handed a dumbfounded Joe the cane and kept walking.

"No! Not like this! You owe us, you owe me more than this!" Joe snarled staggering after Methos.

"I'm sorry Joe, but I don't, you see the men who took me, the man who . . .they were Watchers Joe, all of them. Poor you, all this time thinking all the chronicles were for was history. All the watching, the records, did you really think they would spend so much time and effort just to write it down? Come on Joe remember your trial? They didn't want to kill you because of all the dead Watchers. They wanted to kill you because you were close to us, you made us human. You were cramping their style; Horton wasn't a renegade he just got sloppy. They started out like MacLeod, killing only the evil ones, but they couldn't stop there. Oh no, who knew when a good immortal could go bad? So they started killing all of us. Even that wasn't enough; do you know where the Game came from? I do, so do they. It s not necessary you know, the game was invented, there is no prize, it was just a way to increase the killing. It doesn't matter none of it, I remember who I am and how to stop them. I have to stop it Joe, they think they can play God and wipe out an entire race. You understand don't you? It has to stop." He said gently. Joe slowly wilted throughout Methos's tirade until his whole weight was resting on the cane.

"I didn't know." Joe murmured.

Methos remained silent; he pushed past Joe and retrieved his sword. "Its not your fault Joe, not many know what you, what _we _were up to." He raised his right wrist to expose a faded tattoo.

"Remember I was a Watcher too Joe. Think of the thousands who've been killed over the game. We can never stop the game Joe you have to know that. They've killed thousands, and they'll kill thousands more, they'll make the Horsemen look like schoolyard bullies. Tell MacLeod . . . tell him everything except about the prize, don't tell him that, it would kill him. Richie will know where I'm going. Tell them . . .That I have to do this, that when they come they must be careful and . . .don't jump to any conclusions, okay Joe can you do that?" He asked putting on boots and a long coat. Joe nodded and looked at Methos with wounded eyes.

"What are you going to do?" He asked not really wanting to know the answer.

"I'm going to kill them all Joe, everyone of the bastards who knows what the real agenda is, then I'm going to reveal the truth, tell them everything After that. . .well after that I don't care." He said bitterly and left.

He walked along the highway until dark, when he reached a small town. All it contained was a post office a gas station a diner and a bar. He frowned and walked into the bar, his feet hurt and he was thirsty. He hadn't made good time. Methos wanted to walk back to Seacouver back to the warehouse and eventually back to Baal. It seemed a good way to build his strength and force him to think. To plan and consider, if he drove there he wouldn't have time to calm down. He sat and ordered a draft beer.

His waitress reminded him of Alexa. He didn't want to think about Alexa, she'd been the only really good thing in his life for so long he could barely remember. He'd never loved someone so much before, she really had been the light of his life.

"The light went out." He said wryly to his reflection in the tabletop. He drained the beer and ordered a plate of chicken. He avoided the waitress's eyes; he didn't feel like being cheerful or pleasant. He felt like killing something. He closed his eyes and willed the Horseman away. Self-control is imperative a stern voice told him from the depths of memory. Whose voice? Now that would be annoying. He wondered if anyone else remembered so much that they forgot more than most people would ever know. It hurt to forget things, friends, and lovers, even enemies. He couldn't or rather hadn't been able to remember where he'd come from for millennia. Now he could, he didn't like it and longed for his familiar amnesia.

The girl brought the chicken and another beer. He didn't reply to her cheerful wishes to 'enjoy'. He took one look at the meat and lost his appetite. A greasy congealed mass glistening in the smoky dim light of a rundown bar simply didn't appeal to him. He wondered if he were going mad again.

His body felt like live electricity, every nerve and muscle taught and poised. Ready for . . .what? Combat? He consciously tried to relax and failed. Instead he drank the beer pushed the chicken away and studied his surroundings. Maybe ten people were in the bar they all looked like locals. He was mildly surprised that he hadn't been hassled yet. Several toughs were lurking at the end of the bar eyeing him suspiciously. Good idea, he thought, you'll need courage if you want a fight. Part of him longed to take the toughs outside and beat them to bleeding rags. Scowling he snatched a handful of money from his pocket and dropped it on the table.

Unfortunately the thugs decided now was the appropriate time to surround their prey. Methos ignored them and stepped outside. A light rainfall had started while he'd been inside. He breathed deeply; he had always loved the smell of rain. Comes of being desert born, a voice advised. He ignored his memories and imaginings. The toughs were lurking behind him. He decided to play ignorant. He headed for the road ignoring the pack following him.

"Hey buddy, what you doin around here, this time of night?" One called

"Yeah man, ain't you heard, this here's a real dangerous part of town." Another snorted.

Methos kept walking he desperately wanted to avoid fighting them; he knew that once he started fighting it would be very difficult to stop before he killed someone. He narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth praying to any god that would listen that the pack would lose interest and seek other entertainment.

"Come on man, you ain't bein too social, we might get offended if you don't start chattin with us, we ain't so bad once you get to know us." The first heckler continued.

Methos stopped and allowed the group to catch up. He studied them for a moment four young men, probably unemployed, bitter and angry. He tried to sort out the leader probably the little one who'd been 'chatting' with Methos. He stood and allowed the 'leader' to continue.

"We ain't gonna hurt you, we jus wanna talk a little." He said and whipped out a switchblade, the others followed suit. Methos arched an eyebrow. Perhaps they would be worth beating after all, keep fellow hitchhikers a little safer. A part of him screamed that he was finding a comfortable lie, a nice simple excuse to loose control for a few moments.

Methos obstinately refused to reply choosing instead to stare down the little man. Frustrated the leader lashed out at Methos's face. Methos dropped into a crouch kicked the man in the solar plexus and broke his arm. The knife fell to the damp pavement with a clatter. The other toughs hesitated before attacking. Their leader was lying on the ground howling in pain and gasping for breath.

In the end two were unconscious, one had three broken ribs and a gashed forehead. Only their 'fearless leader' could walk. Methos watched him struggle to his feet half expecting more abuse. Methos's self-control was worn thin; he would have loved to kill them all. The little man stared at Methos as though contemplating another attack, in the end he ran back to the bar. Methos judged he had about three minutes before more people and or cops arrived. Taking the path of least resistance and most usefulness he slipped into a jog and headed out on the highway.

Duncan was dangerously low on gas. He pulled into a gas station a half hour from the house. Emergency vehicles were parked in front of the bar and diner that comprised the tiny settlement. Several people were gathered next to the highway. An EMT team pulled a gurney through the crowd to an ambulance and loaded it in. There were two more ambulances and a cop car as well. Duncan walked into the station to pay for his gas.

"What's going on?" He asked casually.

"Oh, a couple of local thugs got taken apart by some drifter. One of em's gonna need surgery." The cashier said offhandedly staring through her bulletproof shield at the crowd.

"By who?" Duncan asked.

"Hmm? Oh, just some drifter, showed up and ordered a couple of beers, the guys started in on him as he left, you know, trying to pick a fight."

"Anyone say what he looked like?"

"Eh? Oh tall guy, really skinny, short dark hair, long coat, big nose, didn't say much and didn't seem to be in a good mood. My friend Stacy was his waitress, said he didn't say more than a couple sentences and wasn't in a mood to talk. Guess those boys finally picked on the wrong guy. Serves em right."

"I see, have the police started to look for him yet?"

"I don't know, I don't think so, even if they caught him, they'd mostly want to give him a medal, you know those guys were a real problem." She said and ignored Duncan. Duncan scowled it sounded an awful lot like Methos. He walked back to the car and paused. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Dawson.

"Joe? It's MacLeod. I've got Richie we're headed back."

"He did what? We have to stop him, yeah I'm at a gas station about a half hour from the house. It looks like he was here; someone fitting his description nearly killed four muggers. If he's in that kind of mental state no one's safe."

"We don't know that that's the truth Joe, we have to stop him he could get himself killed."

"Fine, we're going to look for Methos and head back to the house. Be ready to leave when we get there, we have to try to intercept him." He hung up and pumped the gas. Richie woke and got out of the car stretching and grunting.

"Now what?" He asked rubbing his stiff neck and squinting.

"Apparently Methos remembered something about his captors, he says that they're Watchers." Duncan said and paused eyeing Richie with a mixture of concern and interest. Richie's expression remained impassive, he neither confirmed nor denied the statement.

"And?" Richie prompted. Duncan was mildly surprised by Richie's lack of concern or interest but then recalled his implant and realized Richie's attitude was a defense mechanism.

"And he took off a few hours ago to go kill them. Apparently he stopped here on the way." Duncan said and pointed to the crowd. Richie whistled low and breathy and shook his head.

"Why didn't Joe call us?" He asked opening the passenger side door.

"He couldn't get through on his cell phone and Methos cut the telephone lines on his way out."

"Pretty thorough, guess we have to stop him huh? Which way did he go from here?" Richie asked staring over the roof of the car at the mass of people and Methos's victims. He felt fear for his former friend but at the same time forced a sense of disinterest to avoid setting off his implant. One man lay on a stretcher with his arm at an impossible angle, another had his chest bandaged and a paramedic was inserting a breathing tube.

"Yeah hop in, he probably followed the Highway so we'll see if we can pick up his tracks." Duncan said sliding into the driver's seat. Richie remained staring at the handiwork of Death for another moment before climbing in.

Methos jogged until his heart ached and he could barely breath. His limbs felt like lead and he could barely see through the rain which - just to brighten his day had turned to sleet. Finally he slowed to a walk. He was soaked to the skin and shivering. This knowledge came to him gradually penetrating his self-induced numbness. Coughing and exhausted he stumbled to the side of the road. He crouched and coughed violently sleet running down his face.

Catching his breath he looked down the road. I'm going to freeze to death. He thought and frowned it wasn't an unpleasant death true but it wasn't part of his plan. Hitchhike moron! A little voice squealed in the back of his mind. Survival instinct huh? He thought vaguely and grinned forcing another coughing fit. Ran too much he thought standing. He renewed his trudge and jammed a hooked thumb into the wind with little hope that anyone would stop for such a deranged looking man.

The weather had steadily worsened since they left the gas station. A blinding sleet reduced their vision to roughly six feet, Duncan cursed and swerved to avoid another driver barreling down the road riding the dividing line. The car passed them and left the road tires squealing.

A faint tingling buzz swept over both occupants and was gone in a moment.

"Methos!" They said in unison, Duncan pulled over and they both climbed out. The wind was picking up tossing the freezing sleet into their faces. Scowling Duncan set off.  
As he reached the car he could see movement. The headlights were still on, they illuminated the underside of a clump of evergreens. Cautiously Duncan approached the driver's side door. He wrenched it open and jumped back. A body slid out and landed in the ankle deep mud with a plop. Duncan knelt and examined the person. It was a man in his forties. He was unconscious and there was a bloody gash above his left eye. Duncan pulled off his coat and wrapped the stranger in it. He stood and looked inside the car, the passenger's door stood open. Blood coated the steering wheel and dash. A handgun lay half under the driver's seat. Duncan stood and circled to the other side.  
A set of footprints led off into the brush. By the size and distance the passenger had been a man and he was running.

"Methos." Duncan muttered and took off after the prints. He felt the buzz a few moments later as he closed the distance between himself and his friend. Methos was moving fast but jerkily as though he'd been wounded or couldn't see very well. The sleet was letting up slightly but the night was still bitterly cold.  
Duncan continued the chase dodging foliage and roots. He entered a clearing and saw Methos at the other end.

"Methos stop!" Duncan shouted hoping he could be heard above the storm. Methos hesitated; he looked over his shoulder at Duncan for a moment before darting into the woods again. Cursing Duncan sprinted after him. Without the impediment of his wet coat and with more strength and stamina Duncan began closing the distance. Methos ran on with his weird twisting jerking movements. Finally MacLeod was close enough to attempt to tackle Methos. He leapt at the ancient's ankles; the impact dropped the older man to his knees. MacLeod rolled to his feet and knocked Methos flat.

"Leave me alone!" Methos cried rising to his knees.

"No! You cannot do this on your own!"

"You have no idea what's going on! You stubborn son of a bitch! Just turn around and walk away!"

"I can't do that. I can't let you kill yourself Methos." Duncan gasped as the rain sheeted off his face.

"Please Duncan, let me do this." Methos demanded shivering. Blood coated his face and he held his right arm close to his side. The rain soaked most of the blood away but he was bleeding so badly he could barely see.

"Look at you! You can't see, you're exhausted, you can barely walk!" Duncan said extending a hand to help Methos up. Methos eyed the proffered hand suspiciously.

"Come back Methos, if you try this now you'll die. They'll kill you, you can't tell me you've lived this long just to throw your life away for revenge." Duncan demanded keeping his hand extended stubbornly ignoring the ancient's reluctance.

"You have no idea what's going on." Methos said matter-of-factly finally accepting the offered help. He stood slowly favoring his right side; gingerly he straightened and looked MacLeod in the eye.

"Fuck off MacLeod." He growled and turned his back on MacLeod he began fighting through the woods heading back to the road.

"Stubborn bastard." MacLeod muttered and knocked Methos out with the butt of his katana. He looped his arms under the other immortal's armpits and began dragging him back to the car. He paused occasionally to catch his breath. Even waterlogged Methos didn't weigh nearly as much as he should have. Duncan stopped as he reached the wrecked car to check on the driver. To his surprise the stranger was gone, Duncan's coat lay discarded in a puddle. Most of the man's prints had been eradicated by the weather the few that remained pointed toward the road. Scowling Methos picked up his burden and continued on. Halfway between the crash and Duncan's car Methos woke up.

"Let me go." Methos snapped.

"You're coming back." Duncan said coldly.

"Fine, just . . . just let me walk okay?" Methos growled. Duncan stopped dragging him and helped him to his feet. They continued on Methos limping along and Duncan staying close enough to catch him if he tripped. Methos pretended to not notice MacLeod's concern. "

What happened?" He asked nodding toward the wreck behind them.

"Oh, nothing I've just had the worst day I've had in about oh, three thousand years." Methos snapped. Duncan arched an eyebrow and moved a low hanging branch out of their path.

"Fine, I was hitchhiking and the bastard tried to rob me. Second time tonight, I mean do I look like I have money? I tried to defend myself, he shot me and we went off the road." He growled Duncan didn't reply. Finally they reached the car and Richie. Methos slid into the back seat and lay down. Duncan climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut. Methos didn't comment on Richie's presence if he'd even noticed.

"Now what?" Richie asked.

"Now we call Joe and head back." Duncan answered starting the car.

"Okay, then what?"

"Well, if everyone will stay in the house for at least oh, three hours we can come up with some kind of plan. What do you think?" Duncan snapped. He wasn't feeling chatty. Richie shrugged and fell silent. Apparently even the perfect immortal can run out of patience, fair enough he thought.

Duncan flipped on the radio and searched until he caught an early morning news report.

"...The suspect was last seen heading north on I-23, witnesses describe him as a male Caucasian who is around six feet tall, he was wearing a dark ankle length coat, boots and jeans. Police do not believe he is armed but say he may be hurt and is extremely dangerous. For those of you just tuning in stay tuned and our top stories will be repeated in ten minutes." A professional female voice blared.

"Hear that twiggy you're famous." Duncan said to Methos. When there was no reply he twisted the rear view mirror and caught a look at Methos, he was staring at the ceiling.

"Methos?" He asked. Methos ignored him; he closed his eyes and rolled onto his side. He knew Duncan meant well but he couldn't banter. He could barely think he couldn't sleep either. Bone tired and filled with despairing wrath he longed for sleep's special oblivion.

"Call Joe, let him know what's up." Duncan said and tossed Richie his phone.  
The commentator started again she talked about a local firefighters strike, the stock market, terrorism in the middle east and several other stories before coming to the report the immortal's were waiting for.  
"Four men were beaten in Briarwood earlier this evening. Police believe the men attempted to mug the suspect; the suspect left three of the men incapacitated. One man was knocked unconscious, another was also knocked unconscious and is suffering from several bruised ribs and a fractured wrist, a third man has a broken arm and the fourth has several broken ribs and a collapsed lung. The suspect was last seen heading north on I-23, witnesses describe him as a male Caucasian around six feet tall; he was wearing a dark ankle length coat, boots and jeans. Police do not believe he is armed but say he may . ." Duncan turned off the radio with a violent twist.  
Richie picked up Duncan's phone and began to dial.

"Joe? We got him, we're heading back now."

"Okay, I'll let 'em know. Anything else?"

"Sure Joe, bye."

"Uhh, Mac, the news isn't good. Joe says he tried to get some help from the Watcher's but no go. They uh questioned his sanity and threatened his pension." An irritated snort drifted up from the back seat

"Plus, the TV has started airing police sketches of Methos and apparently they're pretty accurate. Anyway Joe's afraid they're going to start canvassing and may get as far as the house. Bottom line, we don't have a whole lot of time." Richie trailed off and set the phone down.

"Great." Duncan murmured and sighed. He pressed the gas pedal to the floor and scowled as he focused on staying on the road. He slowed down a few miles from Briarwood.

"Get down on the floor Methos. Richie, toss our coats on the back seat. If we get stopped behave, we'll let Methos get arrested if we have to okay?" He commanded slowing the car even further. Richie nodded, Methos didn't reply.

"Okay?" he said louder and eyed Methos in the mirror. Methos grunted and pulled his coat off. The right side of his sweater was crusty with blood and his arm still looked broken. He dropped the coat on the seat and slid onto the floor. He moved stiffly and carefully still favoring his right side. Duncan imagined that he must have been facing the driver trying to grab the handgun when the driver shot him, and lost control throwing them both into the dash and hurling the car into the ditch.

Duncan regretted having been so rough with the older man. Whatever he had remembered had obviously had a profound effect on him. The older immortal had never been so violent, so erratic before. Duncan knew what Methos's history had been. Methos had forced Duncan to realize just exactly how evil Methos had been. It was still a shock to see his friend behaving so strangely. Methos was fighting something, his own nature, or his memories, whatever it was Duncan wanted his friend to win.

MacLeod rounded the last corner separating them from tiny Briarwood. Sure enough a cordon had been set up across the road. Drivers were having their I.D. checked and a few were even being searched. Duncan frowned and fell into line behind a minivan. Two other cars were in front, he gauged he had at longest a ten minute wait. Unfortunately he didn't see any choice but the course of action they'd already taken, it was too late and Methos was too weak for anything else. Methos and Richie remained silent, either they trusted MacLeod or didn't see any other choice.

Eventually the other cars were searched and moved on. Duncan slid to a halt and shut off the car. A state trooper tapped on his window MacLeod unrolled it and smiled cheerfully.

"What seems to be the problem officer?"

"We had a beating here a few hours ago, we're searching for the perpetrator. Have you picked up any hitchhikers tonight sir?"

"Uh no officer just me and my friend here."

"Can I see your I.D. please?" The officer asked in a tone that said quite explicitly that disobedience would not be appreciated. MacLeod dug into his pocket and handed the cop his wallet.

"Mr. MacLeod is it?"

"Yes sir."

"Where are you heading?"

"Southport"

"I see"

"You can move along now, keep the speed limit and remember don't pick up any hitchhikers this guy is dangerous." The trooper said already motioning another car to move up. Duncan pulled ahead and rolled up the window.

"Nicely done." Methos drawled from the backseat. He didn't need to be told to stay put. He remained on the floor for another ten minutes before painfully climbing onto the seat.

"You look like hell." Duncan said conversationally.

"Funny you've looked better." Methos replied in the same tone.

Richie remained silent he didn't feel like making his presence unavoidably noticeable. He seriously doubted Methos had decided to up and put his life in Richie's hands again. He didn't want to reopen that train of thought so he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

"That arm looks nasty."

"Yes well, having it broken in three places does that, letting it heal badly helps. Probably have to re-break it now."

"We're almost home."

Methos grunted. Duncan gave up on conversation for the moment and concentrated on driving. As they reached the house he noticed the dangling telephone wires.

"How'd you know which were for the telephone and which were electrical?" He asked Methos.

"I had a friend once who was an electrician." Methos said. Right, Duncan thought, I'm sure and I bet your friend knew how to wire plastique too. He shut off the car and woke Richie. Richie climbed out and headed into the house. Duncan stepped out stretched and opened the back door. He reached in and helped Methos out.

Methos's arm was definitely broken. His clothes were torn and filthy and he looked like, well, death. Duncan slid his arm around Methos and half dragged him into the house. He dragged him past the remnants of Methos and Joe's impromptu little party and into the kitchen, he sat him on the stool. Richie and Joe wandered in behind him.

"Coffee anyone?" Richie asked and set about making the steamy stimulant unasked.

Joe glared at Methos but taking in his battered state and obviously damaged arm he softened and helped Richie with the coffee and some breakfast. Duncan knelt in front of Methos's slumped form and picked up a pair of scissors he cut the older man's sweater off his body and let it drop to the ground. The gunshot had healed except for an ugly bruise. Several other bruises peppered Methos's lean body. The arm was by far the worst.

"Break it at the old points, straighten it and let it heal." Methos said. Grateful for the advice Duncan obeyed. Methos jerked and grunted softly at the nasty crack of the damaged bones re-shattering. A light sweat broke out over Methos's body as another break was made. By the end Duncan was as pale as Methos.

Duncan glanced up at his friend to his surprise Methos's hazel eyes met his and Methos smiled. A wash of relief swept over Duncan. He considered offering Methos a painkiller but the arm had already healed. Richie handed Methos a mug of coffee and set another on the table for Duncan.

"So, between Methos and Richie we've lost a day and gained a police investigation. Have we learned anything children?" Joe asked caustically. Methos's news about the Watchers had hit Joe hard. He had devoted his life to the Watchers and immortals. He couldn't fathom that his life's work may have been corrupted and used to destroy people like MacLeod, Richie, and Methos. In his pain he used anger as a defense. Methos saw through Joe's angry words to his pain and remained silent. Duncan was surprised by the vehemence of Joe's statement but couldn't deny its truth. Richie ignored it.

"We need information, we need a plan, and we need to get out of here." Duncan said standing and drinking his coffee. Richie poured half a dozen eggs into a skillet and added cheese.

"Where can we go?" Joe asked.

"There's the dojo, the bar, and Methos's apartment which will probably be watched. Probably a hotel or motel is our best choice." Richie said over the hiss of the eggs.

"Maybe, we could always head somewhere else besides Seacouver. Maybe the backwoods hide out long enough to come up with a good plan, maybe some reinforcements." Duncan said. Methos resorted to his defensive blank stare. Richie kept his back to the ancient and continued cooking adding peppers and sliced vegetables to his eggy masterpiece. Methos was thinking, he was trying to remember everything he could. Flashes of light, tattoos, questions, nothing coherent came to mind. Frustrated and still damp he stood up. All eyes turned to him; he studiously ignored his audience and stomped off in search of a shower. "Down to the left." Joe called as the old man left the kitchen. Richie and Duncan ignored the little byplay and continued discussing plans.

Methos stepped into the bathroom his soaked boots formed little puddles around his feet on the blinding white tile. It was a smallish bathroom. Clean sparkling and sterile. "Like a bloody hospital." He muttered closing the door behind him. He supposed that given its current and likely clientele that is battered immortals and mortals alike. Perhaps it was a good idea to mimic a hospital. Part of him found this intensely amusing the other couldn't be bothered. Methos was thankful that he didn't have to wrestle with his sweater or coat; he slumped on the toilet seat and unbuttoned his jeans. So far so good he pondered. Pulling them off as well as the boots and waterlogged socks weren't as easy. The socks created a sort of suction effect sliding off his feet. Confusing the order of removal in his exhaustion didn't help. Eventually he succeeded and stood pitiful and shivering under the showerhead as the water warmed and turned to a boiling needle spray. He grunted and stretched cat like under the abusive spray. Taught muscles relaxed and bruises vanished.  
He stayed under the spray until it began to cool. Finally he shut off the water and stood dripping. He noticed with bemusement that he could count nearly all his ribs. A fierce hunger pang reminded him that food awaited. Eager he stepped out of the shower and onto the slick floor. To his everlasting amusement the wet floor caught him by surprise and sent him careening into the wall. He sat nursing his pride and searching for a bathrobe. Spying one he slung it on abandoned his clothes and stalked back to the kitchen. During this whole process he'd tactfully managed to avoid seeing his own reflection. Looking into his own eyes was something he was dreading.  
As Methos padded into the kitchen the others continued their now heated discussion of options.

"Fine Mac lets go out into the backwoods, its only February after all, there isn't snow in most of the mountains, we wouldn't freeze during the hike, and shoot, we sure wouldn't run out of food before spring." Joe snapped. Mac knew he could find a safe way to his cabin, he knew he could pack in enough food with Richie and Methos's help but he didn't think his plan was too great anyway so let Joe put it to rest.

"Okay and you propose that we what? Go back to Seacouver where the cops and . . . are expecting us?" Richie asked His face twisted and he rubbed his neck as he tried to finish his sentence, he tried to hide it by dumping congealed eggs into the trash.

"Hey, hey, hey, that was my breakfast Ryan, now what am I supposed to do?" Methos asked archly enjoying Richie's guilty reaction. Methos didn't blame Richie that would have been like blaming a tree for being flattened by a hurricane. That didn't mean he trusted the eternal teenager he just didn't think he'd intended harm or ever had intended any toward Methos.

Methos shoved past Richie playfully patting him on the back as he passed and began fixing his own breakfast. When Richie moved to help he shooed him away and ignored him. Richie admitted defeat and watched with a sense of commemoration as the laziest creature the young man had ever come across cooked for himself.

"Why don't we go to South America? Or Africa? There's no law saying we have to stay in familiar places." Methos said dragging ingredients out of the cupboards and scattering them every which way. Duncan watched the mayhem and chaotic mess unfold with a sense of irritated satisfaction. It was good to see the old man so energetic but it was honestly exacerbating to see his system and kitchen tossed about on a whim.

Duncan winced as a can of stewed tomatoes slid out of the top shelf and crashed to the counter top where it left a sizable dent. "Because we don't know how strong they may be there." Duncan explained in a tired tone.

"Then lets stay here." Methos said ignoring the damaged counter and finally discovering what he'd been looking for, a packet of pop-tarts. He refilled his mug of coffee and began to gnaw the sugary cardboard with an air of satisfied self-absorption. Duncan hadn't the slightest idea where the discs o' sugary death had come from, he couldn't stand them, they had absolutely no nutritional value. Joe looked on amused as Duncan's face insisted on doing calisthenics.

"Because you nit, the police will be coming here looking for us and we're supposed to be in Seacouver and you're wanted for assault." Duncan growled.

"Simple, disable the car say I don't know remove the distributor cap, blame it on vandals then I'll hide in the woods and Joe can claim to be your old pal who happens to live here. Its fool proof." Methos said around a gooey mouthful of sticky carbohydrates.

"Only if you're an idiot, how will we know when the cops come? Even then why would they believe us and third, I'm listed as the owner of this house." Duncan snarled picking up the wreckage of his kitchen.

"You worry too much. We can keep watch on the road, whenever a cop comes give warning, one of you meets the cops in the driveway, I leave out the back no harm no foul. Besides MacLeod if you think these guys care enough about a few thugs to search this hard do you really think they'll see if you own property around here?" Methos said in a patronizing tone reaching for another packet of pop-tarts. Duncan neatly stole the box and held them out of Methos's reach.

"Fine, but when it goes wrong its officially your fault, not mine." He said and relenting tossed the irritated five thousand year old man his pop-tarts.

"I'll take the first watch." Richie said and snagging his coat walked outside. The weather had lightened up to a slight drizzle. Sunlight was dim and gray, filtered through clouds and cold and cheerless at best. Richie shoved his hands in his pocket and puffing small clouds of steam he began walking to the road.

"I'm going to get some shut eye, since somebody has decided to mock my dignity." Methos said cheerfully and exited, a small trail of pop-tart crumbs scattered in his wake.

Duncan chuckled as he watched his friend's antics. His chuckle grew louder and lustier until he was nearly crying he was laughing so hard. It just felt so damn good to truly laugh. Joe joined him and soon the two were clinging to the counter and table respectively in a vain attempt to remain upright.

Methos took the first bed he came to; happily for his sense of irritating rightness it was MacLeod's. He slid under the sheets and was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow. He slept deeply and didn't dream.

The three took turns keeping watch; four hour shifts which left eight hours downtime for each. Methos slept for nearly eighty hours straight. During his downtime they had several close calls. Twice an official vehicle had passed the driveway and three unmarked cars had slowed in front of the house. Neither MacLeod nor Richie felt a buzz from any of the vehicles and Joe didn't recognize any drivers, but that didn't prove anything.

"They're just being careful, they're not tipping their hand." Duncan said when Richie asked if they'd been found.

Methos woke gradually the dim light of the room threw him for a moment and he couldn't recall where he was. Gradually the events of the past year filtered back into conscious memory. He grunted and sat up. His stomach wrenched with hunger pangs groggily he crawled out of bed and dressed. As he dressed he noticed he'd actually gained weight. He smirked and slipped on a sweater and a pair of jeans, which were slightly less baggy than before. He padded into the depths of the house feeling content and a great deal stronger. He made a beeline for the fridge and began devouring food.

"Methos?" A startled voice asked. Methos straightened from his position in front of the fridge, spaghetti sauce dribbled down his chin as he peered over the door.

"Hi Joe." He said mildly and returned to his scoffing. Joe blinked and wondered briefly whether it would be worth the trouble involved to pry Methos away from the fridge. He decided upon careful reflection that indeed it would not. Instead he sat at the kitchen table and watched Methos devour nearly the entire contents of the fridge.

Midway into Methos's engorgement Duncan wandered in sorting through his mail. He glanced at the fridge and its parasite. He arched an eyebrow at Joe in question Joe shrugged and waved a hand at a seat next to him. Duncan echoed his shrug and sat down. Methos oblivious to the two of them kept munching.

"You ever do this?" Joe asked. Duncan paused in thought for a moment.

"Sure, you can only starve a body so long, he's just rebuilding, you know restocking the raw materials he's used." Duncan said and picked up an apple from a basket on the table.  
Joe thought about this for a moment.

"You guys just get weirder everyday, you know that?" Duncan smiled enigmatically and didn't bother to reply. Eventually Methos slacked off, he wandered over to the table and picked up an apple absently he bit into it looking out over the balcony.

"Better?" Duncan asked casually as he slipped the rubber band off the morning paper. Methos didn't bother to react the Highlander was being a mite uppity this morning. He decided to bide his time before putting the big Scot back in his place.

"What's the plan?" He asked sitting down.

"You tell us oh wise one." Joe said.

A predatory grin spread over Methos's thin face, his lips parted in an ugly grimace and he said coldly, "Well then, we act." Duncan and Joe remained silent, the man sitting next to them was not Adam Pierson, he wasn't even Methos, he was Death. Duncan stood and looked at Methos expectantly. It dawned on Methos gradually through the bloody haze that clouded his thoughts that MacLeod was awaiting orders.

"Let's make a plan." He growled and crushed the remnants of his apple in his palm.

The man Methos called Baal and Richie Ryan called master sat on a park bench gazing at mist-shrouded shrubbery. He was waiting for someone. He waited expectantly the way an early hunter will crouch expectantly behind a blind awaiting his inevitable prey. Languidly he stretched his long limbs. He was dressed all in dark. A black pea coat, wool watch cap, knee high boots, and dark pants. His hands were clad in fingerless gloves. His fingertips glittered in the dim light, pale and feminine.

"Have you been waiting long?" A voice asked from the misty shadows to the right of the bench. The blue-eyed man smiled coldly. He acted as though he hadn't been the least surprised by the sudden shattering of his silence, which, in fact he hadn't been.

"No longer than I expected. This had better be worth it, this isn't the most pleasant weather, and you are not in my good graces little one." Richie's master hissed. The second speaker was silent for a moment thinking perhaps, or afraid.

"I have news, your prey escaped, its mind is healed and its heart is set on vengeance, it seeks you and your brethren." The new voice babbled. The cold-eyed killer frowned at this, the news wasn't entirely unexpected, nor was it entirely timely.

"This is most unfortunate. Still I mustn't be a Nero to my little messenger must I? You may leave, your life will be spared . . . for now." The killer waved a dismissive hand in the direction of his informant and rose. He ignored the scrabble of uncertain feet on frozen earth and set out for the edge of the park.

A stooped figure sprinted out of the shadows and across the park. He paused to catch his breath leaning against a lamppost. Caught in the spill of light he appeared thin, fragile, and terrified. His left wrist was tattooed with a three pronged design surrounded by an oval.

They left that evening piled into Duncan's car. Methos lay flat in the trunk with the luggage piled on him. The police cordon had been lifted but his picture was still being circulated. He bemoaned the fate of mutinous officers as he climbed into the trunk but hadn't really minded. It was really the only way he could travel any distance. They were going to Seacouver; they would arm themselves and attack. Joe wouldn't take part in the combat neither would Richie.

Richie hadn't objected when Duncan and Methos never mentioned him in their assault plans. He knew he couldn't be trusted but it still hurt. He and Duncan had always relied on one another in dangerous situations. He cursed the fate that had crippled him, he cursed the people that kidnapped and drugged him. Instead of objecting, he acquiesced and laid his own plans in silence.

They arrived outside the dojo after dark. The weather had cleared and even grown sunny in the watery winter way of Washington sunshine in February. Now the city's glow obscured starlight, they parked under a streetlight. Richie, Joe, and Mac climbed out stretching and yawning. Duncan tossed Richie his keys and watched while the younger man unlocked the trunk and popped it open.

"I hate you all." Methos's surly voice boomed out into the cold night air. He dragged himself out from under the luggage. Bags and suitcases cascaded to the pavement as the ancient man painstakingly extricated himself from his cramped cubby. He stood shivering for a moment ignoring his companions and remembering his last visit to MacLeod's home.  
Duncan scooped up a large suitcase and tossed it at Methos. It struck him in the chest the ancient grunted and picked it up.

"It's not enough that you have to imprison me and steal my pop-tarts, you must also make me your mule?" He asked the highlander with a smirk. Duncan diplomatically ignored the jibe and began picking up more luggage, Joe and Richie joined him and together they dragged their gear up to Mac's loft.

Duncan unlocked the door to the dojo and they trooped through, across the practice floor to the elevator. It slid to a stop and Mac lifted the gate. Three men stood in front of the elevator with automatic weapons.

Duncan clotheslined Richie as he moved to attack the gunmen, the blow knocked Richie back into Joe. They went down in a tangle, with Richie maneuvering to protect Joe from gunfire. At the same time Methos threw his bags at the men and darted behind Duncan's kitchen counter drawing his sword as he moved. Duncan launched himself at the men, two were knocked off their feet one dodged Duncan and opened fire.

The bullets tore through the small room shattering crockery and piercing walls. Richie's body jerked at their impact. Duncan dodged to the right lashing out with his katana as he rolled; the blade caught the gunmen across the back of the knees severing his tendons. The man squealed and collapsed Duncan slit his throat and moved to the other gunmen. Methos had beaten him to the punch so to speak.

One of the men was pinned to the floor by Methos's Ivanhoe, which had been inserted between his eyes. Methos held the other against the floor, his knees pinned the other man's arms. Methos's fists rose and fell in a hideous rhythm as he beat the other man's face bloody. Duncan ignored him for the moment to check on Richie and Joe.

He knelt next to their intertwined bodies. Both were soaked in blood, Richie was definitely dead his chest had been peppered with at least a dozen wounds and his limbs were contorted in the limp careless way unique to corpses. Duncan pulled Richie off Joe and checked the Watcher's pulse he was alive.

"I'm fine." Joe growled accepting Duncan's help to get to his feet. Duncan then turned his attention to Methos. To his horror Methos was still beating the third gunman. Apparently he'd tired of using his fists and was now kicking him.

Duncan put the older immortal in a headlock and levered him away from his victim. "Methos!" He snapped. Immediately Methos ceased struggling to break the Highlander's grip. He stood passive gasping for breath. Duncan knelt and checked the first two men, unsurprisingly they were both dead, he checked the third man. He was still alive his breathing was raspy and gurgling.

"You've broken his nose, maybe punctured a lung." Duncan said, Methos didn't respond. Duncan dragged him away from the two corpses. As he was moving him Richie woke up.

The young man sat up gasping and holding his chest. It hurt every time of course but this time was by far the worst. He felt as though he'd been turned into a dartboard, coughing and grunting he stood leaning on the elevator's doorway. He took in the wreckage before him without comment. He could see what had happened to the two dead men. He cringed at the sight of the man nailed to the floor by Methos's sword. He noticed Mac's burden with mild surprise, he then noticed Methos's bloody fists and boots. Richie decided on the wiser course of ignoring Methos and the dead men. Stepping over the corpses he gave Mac a hand.

Together they dragged the man into the bathroom. They cleaned his face and examined him. Nothing too serious several cracked ribs and a broken nose. It could have been far worse and would have if Duncan hadn't decided to save the mortal.

"Right then, tie him up." Duncan said to Richie as they finished pulling him back into the main room. They sat him on a chair and tied him securely. While they'd been dealing with their prisoner Joe and Methos had wrapped the bodies and cleaned up most of the blood. Methos's sword sat upright in a corner its length a nasty brown. Methos hadn't bothered to clean himself up his hands were coated in tacky drying blood. Methos stared at the surviving member of the hit team with an expression of cold detachment that was disturbingly familiar to Richie, it would have been to Methos as well, if he'd bothered to look in a mirror.

"Wake him up." Methos said.

"How?" Richie asked.

"Hit him, use smelling salts I don't care, just wake him up." Richie stood up and walked into the bathroom when he returned he was holding a bottle of peroxide. They should have disinfected the cuts on his face anyway. He thought as he poured half the bottle on the man's broken face.

Their prisoner woke moaning and twitching, he shook his face attempting to wipe away the burning liquid. Methos gripped the man's face in his slim fingers forcing his eyes to meet the ancient immortals. The man quailed and ceased struggling.

"Why did you come here?" Methos asked mildly.

At first the man refused to answer he tried to look away from Methos's bright eyes. Methos simply increased the pressure of his grip on the man's jaw. Whimpering the man finally began to gurgle a reply. Joe left the room he couldn't watch his oldest friends torture someone, even if the person in question richly deserved it. Richie followed him out.

"We were sent to kill you." The man whimpered.

"Indeed, and just how did you plan to do that?"

"We . . . we were just supposed to shoot you." The would be killer cried jerking his head free from Methos's grip. Bright livid marks showed where the old man's fingers had bruised the sensitive flesh. Duncan didn't like to watch such treatment, his sense of honor railed against it. He fought to control his reaction, to allow Methos this much trust and vengeance.

"Who sent you?" Methos asked in the same mild tone.

"I don't know, I just got a call for a job, I don't ask questions, I just get the assignment and . . . and report in."

"This was your first job, wasn't it?" Methos asked. His victim nodded miserably squinting up at Methos through blood and tears. Methos nodded thoughtfully.

"You realize that when your boss doesn't report in, his superiors will come looking for you, they'll probably kill you." Again the man simply nodded. Methos walked away from him. He stood with his back to him deep in thought. The prisoner squirmed desperately. He looked around the room for hope. His eyes met MacLeod's silently he appealed for help.

"We can help you, get you a new life, maybe some money to start out with. You'll just have to help us, can you do that?" Methos asked turning to face the quivering man. Gingerly as though agreeing to sell his soul the man nodded. Methos pitied him briefly, you may as well have sold your soul, he thought sadly.

"What's your name?" He asked as he knelt to untie the man, well he actually looked younger than Richie, boy then.

"Simon." He answered simply rubbing his wrists.

"How bout some painkillers Simon?" Methos asked tossing the ropes to the side. The boy nodded gratefully. Duncan relaxed; he doubted Methos would hurt the boy anymore. He turned to tell Joe and Richie that everything was all right and they could begin to dispose of the bodies. As he left Methos watched him go, he knelt next to Simon and whispered a warning.

"Double cross me Simon and I'll skin you." His words fell like lead onto the boy's mind. He didn't doubt the skinny Englishman. The boy had had a hard life and he knew when to avoid and when to avoid his superiors, this man was to be avoided as much as possible. A tremor of blind terror slithered through Simon's mind briefly. He wanted to go home, to start the day over so badly. Mark and Carlos hadn't been too bad. Sure they were killers but they had offered Simon a job, and he felt sorry that they were dead. He watched as the four 'marks' wrapped them in double layers of bed sheets and hustled them down in the elevator. The tall man with dark hair remained in the apartment; the blonde and Simon's new benefactor carried the bodies. The older man with the limp held the elevator door open. Before Methos had turned his attention to the corpses he gave the boy a large handful of painkillers.

Simon dry swallowed the pills the English guy had given him and eyed his new companion carefully. The big man soaked a cloth under the sink and handed it to him.

"Take this in the bathroom and get cleaned up, we won't hurt you." The man said he had a faint trace of an accent. Yeah-right Simon thought. Simon didn't know where he was from, just somewhere else. He wished Carlos and Mark had told him more about the job, about these people. All he knew was that they were supposed to wait up in the loft and kill whoever came up in the elevator. The four men had been described to he and Mark by Carlos. Carlos hadn't given them names; he hadn't mentioned they'd be carrying swords either. Abruptly the memory of Carlos's head nailed to the floor by the English guy forced its way into his mind's eye.

"I'm Duncan MacLeod, the bathroom is that way." The big man said and turned his back on Simon. Briefly Simon wondered if MacLeod was stupid. Then he decided upon reflection that it was a test, Simon decided to pass it. He followed the directions to the bathroom.

He couldn't recognize himself in the mirror his nose was definitely broken. His face was cut and bruised and already swelling. His mouth hurt as well, he rolled his tongue around and tasted blood. Gingerly he pried his cheeks open, one broken tooth and two cracked. He frowned and spat into the sink, a pink froth splattered on the bright porcelain. He gently sponged his face clean. Finally he ground his teeth positioned his hands and wrenched his nose back into position. He pawed through the medicine cabinet until he found some band-aids. He patched together a bandage to hold his nose. Simon checked himself in the mirror again. Not too bad, he thought. As he left the bathroom he dry swallowed another couple pills. He walked into the kitchen and stood watching MacLeod.

MacLeod stood up he'd been scrubbing away the last of the obvious blood stains. Some of the blood had soaked into the carpet or leaked into cracks in the flooring. The elevator would never be the same but to the casual eye it would appear normal. He threw away the last of the bloodstained rags and faced Simon.

Simon felt like an insect on display. He didn't know what to say to these people He'd been sent to kill them. Instead they'd killed his employers and beaten him, then offered him a way out. His ribs hurt like hell, a broken nose and cracked ribs, he decided did not aid in breathing. The next two hours were the oddest and most uncomfortable in Simon's life. He stood, MacLeod stood, neither spoke.

Methos and Richie dropped Joe off at his bar after inspecting it and locking it up behind him. Another attempt tonight didn't seem likely and Joe was armed. Still they triple checked the deadbolts on the windows and all the doors. They wouldn't leave until Joe promised to lock the door behind them and barricade himself in his room. The drive back was strained, Richie remained silent and Methos didn't feel like talking.

In fact Methos felt like hell. He had frightened himself with his violence toward Simon. He didn't regret incapacitating the boy. He did wonder why he hadn't killed him outright like the others instead of beating him half to death. He frowned; his pleasure in beating the boy had been too close to his Horseman days. Too much stress he wondered, granted that would explain a lot but he didn't buy it. He'd been in tougher situations, even the torture hadn't been that bad. Maybe it was the shock of discovering the Watcher's true agenda. He feared he was backsliding, metamorphosing back into the killer of his nightmares. Killing had been a lifestyle for nearly thirteen hundred years before he gave it up. Granted that had been thousands of years ago. Still immortals far younger than he had never had to slaughter thousands in order to learn that such behavior was wrong. They just had. Take MacLeod immortal Boy Scout, eternal Lancelot, he'd never had to rape, kill, and thieve across four continents. His clan's code had taught him better. What about my code? He wondered, survival at any cost? He didn't like to think that was the real Methos. He'd proved he was willing to risk his life for others, partly due to MacLeod's faith in him and Joe's friendship. As he parked in front of the dojo he vowed to control himself. The Horseman was part of him, he couldn't deny that, but he could control him. He hoped.  
As the elevator started the climb to the loft MacLeod drew his sword and stood to the side of the door.

Simon jerked at the sight of the blade. What's with these guys, SCA gone wrong? He wondered briefly as he scuttled out of the sword's reach. MacLeod tensed as the door slid open. He sighed and lowered the sword when Methos and Richie walked out.

"Joe wanted to go home, we checked the place out, he should be fine until tomorrow." Richie said shrugging off his coat. As he hung it up Simon noticed that he too was carrying a sword. This is too fuckin weird he thought for the millionth time.

"I am Adam he is Richie, you will obey us." Methos said as he too hung up his coat. Simon remained silent. Methos didn't care if he cursed till the air was blue or remained mute for the rest of their relationship. He rubbed his temples and turned to Duncan.

"It's taken care of for now." Duncan nodded and jerked his chin toward Simon.

"What about our friend here?" Methos considered Simon for a moment. Simon shivered under his stare and moved to the other end of the room. The boy's actions saddened Methos somehow, not that he had expected anything more or different.

"Let's find out what he knows." Methos said and slumped into a chair. Duncan noticed that the old man had happily slipped into his gelatinous posture. Duncan sat back to watch, he didn't think things would get out of hand, besides it was Methos's show, Duncan hadn't been kidnapped, tortured, betrayed and nearly assassinated.

"I won't hurt you anymore, you understand why I did?" Methos asked. For the first time he sounded truly concerned. Simon nodded and realized that for once he did. He and the others had robbed these men of safety violated their home, and they didn't seem like the kind of people that stood for that sort of thing. He thanked whatever god was listening that he was alive.

"Tell me everything you know about what happened here. When we're done, we'll decide what to do about you. We won't kill you." Methos assured him. Simon nodded and began to tell his story.

"I just started working for Mark and Carlos. Carlos got a call from someone he called Mr. C, I never met him or talked to him so I don't know if he even existed. Anyway we were given your address, he told us to wait up here and shoot anyone who tried to come up in the elevator. Then we were supposed to call this C guy and split. Look, I've never done anything like this, and I wasn't too comfortable with it in the first place." Simon said rapidly. Methos disregarded his excuses and concentrated on his story.

"Do you have the number you were supposed to call?"

"No, Carlos memorized it, he never told me." He thought about adding that Adam had stabbed Carlos in the forehead but didn't see how that could help.

"How did Carlos get his jobs?"

"I don't know, word of mouth I guess." Simon said his head was beginning to hurt again and his ribs had never stopped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few more pills. He swallowed them quickly noting with surprise how the other three men had tensed when he reached into his pocket. He was wearing jeans. It wasn't like he could hide a weapon in them he thought feeling irritated. Methos frowned at the boy.

"You're just about useless, either Carlos didn't trust you or he didn't know anything to tell you. Still it's better than nothing." Methos said as he sank into thought.

Richie and Duncan sat silent finally Duncan said, "Now what?"

"Now we send our friend on his way and go hunting." Methos said. They gave the boy a number to call to get new I.D. a couple thousand dollars and a clean shirt. Methos didn't feel too bad about ditching the youth to fend for himself. The kid was tough, fairly stupid but not suicidal, he would do okay and if he didn't oh well, after all he had tried to kill them.

"We should probably start at the warehouse. They may have left a clue behind. Besides I might remember more if we go there." Methos said putting his coat on. Sometime during all the activity he had cleaned his hands.

"I can't." Richie said rubbing his neck.

"That's it, I've had enough." Methos said mildly. He gripped Richie by the shoulders and sat him forcefully down in a chair. He picked up a nearby lamp and aimed its rays at the younger man's throat. Methos then proceeded to prod, poke, and murmur to himself. Richie bore this treatment patiently he sat obeying gruff instructions and breathing evenly. He was trying not to freak out.

"Well, I can't get it out, not easily and not now, but we might be able to jam it." Methos said standing at last. Duncan looked on with curiosity Methos never really revealed much about himself. He knew that the ancient man had been a doctor he just hadn't thought he would keep up with new developments.

Methos puttered around collecting duct tape, aluminum foil, and several other odds and ends. He sat down and began to work, when he was finished he presented Richie with a thin silver collar, it looked almost like a chain.

"Put this on." He said. Richie obeyed, fastening it behind his head; it rode just above his collarbone.

"Now, try doing something that would set it off normally." Methos said stepping back. Richie wondered vaguely what was wrong with Methos, tinfoil?

"I was captured and implanted with a device to control my behavior." He said purposefully. To his astonishment he wasn't wracked with agonizing spasms. It had worked.

"Tinfoil? Duct tape?" He asked his new physician.

"Hey don't knock it kiddo, it's saving your butt, for now." Methos said with a grin. He picked up his sword, it had also been cleaned, he twirled it experimentally and shot Richie a wolfish grin.

"Wanna go hunting?" He asked. Duncan looked on with a sense of surreal acceptance. Fine, Methos could perform a minor miracle, fine that's okay. After all he's just Death, that's all, and now Richie's going to be his little friend Pain. Moving abruptly, shattering his unwanted reverie he stepped into the elevator and slammed the door down when the other two immortals joined him.

Upon reaching the lower floor of the dojo MacLeod disappeared into his office for a moment emerging with several high-powered automatic weapons and plenty of ammunition.

"A sword can only do so much." He said as he handed out the weapons. Richie hefted the weight of the rifle experimentally. He was not wholly unfamiliar with such weapons but it was still an unfamiliar weight. Methos hefted the weight, checked the breach and slung it over his shoulder with a disturbing level of expertise. MacLeod followed suit moving with the economy of strength and movement of the eternal soldier. "I suppose it would be stupid to ask why you have those and where they're hidden?" Richie asked. Mac smiled sweetly and remained mum. Suitably armed they set out. On the way to the warehouse Richie left a message on Joe's voicemail. They parked a block away. They sat for a moment in the tense silence as the engine ticked cooling in the chill winter air.

"You can turn back Mac. This won't be pretty and it isn't you fight." Richie said softly. Mac tensed and shifted his weight.

"Don't be stupid, this couldn't be more my fight." He said in a cold tone that left no room for doubt. Richie relaxed, he never doubted the highlander's dedication but he couldn't live with himself if he hadn't offered Mac the chance to save himself. Methos remained silent during this exchange. Finally they piled out.  
Methos busied himself securing Richie's weapons out of sight but within easy reach. A difficult art, by the time Methos was finished with Richie and Mac had settled his own gear Methos gave himself a once over and they set out. They moved silently like a trained commando team keeping to shadows. The occasional flash of movement or scrape of a foot the only clue as they closed in on their prize.

The warehouse was silent and black. Methos slipped in a window and helped the other two in. They freed their rifles and froze listening. The slow wash of waves against the pilings below them was the only sound, muffled by the concrete floor. Finally Mac pulled out a flashlight lighting the dank building. It was empty. Cursing Methos pulled out two flashlights and gave one to Richie they split up and began searching.

"Got something." Mac called. Marking their positions Richie and Methos hurried over to Mac. Mac pointed to deep scores on the concrete floor dark stains also marred the surface. Methos nodded.

"That's where the woman died. Keep searching I'll check upstairs" Methos said in a detached tone. He spun on his heel and walked up a short flight of stairs to a half floor. Halfway up he suffered a minor panic attack. Finally he crested the staircase and came face to face with a large rifle. His own weapon at the ready he opened fire. The owner of the threatening muzzle flew several feet backwards his chest blown apart. Three other gunmen brought their weapons to bear but were several nanoseconds too late as the bullets from Methos's weapon broke their bodies and let their lives go. In the end six mercenaries lay in a bloody heap. The only enemy shots fired were wild cards from already dying hands. Richie and Mac stood by Death's elbows. It was Death who had dealt with the attackers and only slowly was he retreating to his prison. Mac and Richie silently began to search the bloody wreckage while Methos worked on prying his fingers from the trigger.

Mac turned up no obvious clues to the identity of the new hit squads employers. Cursing he straightened from his grisly job and watched Richie finish up. Methos crouched at the head of the stairs a fresh clip in his weapon guarding Mac and Richie.

"Nothing." Richie sighed retrieving his weapon.

"Oh not nothing my little pet, something, very much something." A voice sliced the silence. Richie and Methos jerked and brought their weapons to bear. Mac followed suit.

"I'm not drugged or wounded now you son of a bitch." Methos snarled.

"I'm not here you foolish child, not with you and all those scary guns, no I'm here, at Joe's, with your little friend. Although it cost me many men to get here, nice booby traps, and who would've thought the old man would have so much fight left? If you wish to resolve this or see your friend again you have two hours. I won't bother to ask you to arrive unarmed, I wouldn't insult our intelligence thus, and little pet, you've played with your collar. Play with it again and you're dead. The puppy knows where to go." The voice cut out and lights flashed on. A speaker hung from an overhead rafter. Across from their perch a timer hung from the light switch. Far off in the distance sirens could be heard.  
Methos felt as though his chest had been scooped out and packed with ice. Richie and Mac remained still waiting for his lead. Lead he thought bitterly, lot of good its done us so far.

"Joe . . . We shouldn't . . .. I . . .." Methos whispered. He was on the edges of violence or a breakdown. He wasn't sure which. Mac swooped into the rescue.

"Where to Richie?" Mac asked gently.

"It's . . . . . its where they did . . .. this." Richie said quietly gesturing to his throat. He led the way out of the warehouse with Methos trailing behind.

Baal smiled as he switched off the intercom. He gestured to a faceless uniformed member of his 'staff' to remove the equipment. He studied his bare desk for a moment then with a gesture of feline athleticism he was on his feet and moving. His fingers writhing and twining round one another as though possessed of independent life.

"Soon this will all be over and the final plan will reach culmination, the last of them will be crushed and their precious prize exposed. They could have banded together, become a mighty race to rule over us soon, they will be less than a memory." He began to laugh.

They sat outside an unassuming office building. A closed for renovations sign decorated it's façade. The sign was weathered and pale torn and home to an abandoned bird's nest.

"Some renovations." Methos muttered following Richie around the back of the building. The other two ignored him and focused on moving silently and finding a way in. Finally they scaled a fence and broke a lock. Filing in one by one they armed themselves and proceeded with infinite caution. They snaked through small hallways and corridors always Richie in the lead. Methos had no memory of the installation. Finally they entered a giant room, the heart of the building. Their vision had adjusted to the near pitch black during their journey. The room was humid and hot a battered steel table sat in the center. The linoleum below the table was scarred and stained. A tray of surgical instruments lay dusty and abandoned next to it. Methos gagged and dropped to his knees. He vomited and dry heaved until he though he would rupture something. Gasping and coughing he regained control and crawled to his feet. Mac shot him a concerned look. Which Methos waved away. They filed out of the doorway and along the walls.

The thud hiss of arc lights shattered the silence. Instantly the trio crouched back-to-back. Using the wall as cover and aiming their weapons out at the blinding light. They held fire not knowing if they might hit Joe. A rapid string of very foreign very angry curses flowed from Methos. Richie went pale and Mac began calculating the odds of a retreat and attack scheme to play on the enemy's confidence. Finally their eyes adjusted and they took aim. At least twenty armed soldiers professionals if looks meant anything were squared off at the end of the room. Another six sat in a sniper's crouch on a higher level similar to the layout of the warehouse. Although one of the six seemed ill or asleep, he sat slumped over the weapon using it as support.

With a cold professionalism Methos opened fire on the snipers, he hit three before the fourth blew a hole in his chest. He slumped dead; Duncan took out the remaining snipers while Richie opened fire on the ground troops. He wasn't nearly the shot Mac or Methos were but he managed to take out a few and keep the others pinned while the real soldiers took out the heavy hitters. Finally he and Mac managed to finish off the rest. Richie reloaded while Mac took down the stragglers then it was Mac's chance to reload. While they fought Methos revived, groggy and pissed off he took aim at his target but it was the inert sniper. As fire rang out and the man didn't move Methos concluded that he was dead or otherwise incapacitated. Satisfied he scanned the far end of the room through his scope. He spotted an open door on the top level.

Using hand signals, they did a cursory check of the dead and climbed to the second floor. Peering around the jamb into the doorway Richie spotted their target. Baal as Methos had dubbed him. The three entered the room rapidly and professionally. Weapons ready leaving nothing to chance.

"Welcome." Baal stated in a languid expecting tone.

Alarm signals sounded, even though they were expected he shouldn't be so relaxed.

"Shit" Richie said softly.

"Shut the fuck up and prepare to die." Methos hissed pulling the lean man from his chair and hurling him against a wall. He leveled his weapon at the source of so much of his misery and prepared to fire.

"Why kill me? You have done much worse than I yet you live. You told me that what we did to you was justice. Is this how you repay your redeemers?"

"Repay you? For torture? For driving me insane? For making me scream in helpless agony? For that I should repay you? Have it your way." He snarled and picked up Baal by the scruff of his shirt and dragged him back down the stairs past the corpses of his guards and slammed him onto the steel table. Mac and Richie followed ever alert. Mac moved between Baal and Methos.

"Adam! Think this through, he could be valuable, we don't know where Joe is yet, he can tell us, think! We have to get Joe back, nothing else matters!" Mac snarled gripping his friend's shoulders.

"Nothing else matters? How about the game Mac, does that matter?" Methos snapped shoving Mac off him onto Baal still lying on the table.

"What are you talking about?"

"The Game, for the Prize, the all important Game, the dance with Genocide, does it matter?!"

"Of course it matters! What are you talking about?"

"Forget it MacLeod, you couldn't handle it if you knew!" Methos roared and drawing his sword turned on Baal.

"First you twisted fuck, I want your name." Methos hissed pressing the razor blade of his Ivanhoe to his prisoner's throat.

Richie scanned the room nervously his eyes kept darting towards the office door they'd left open. The interplay between Mac and Methos seemed to come from a distance and have no meaning for him. He fingered his tinfoil collar and thought about what it protected. In a heartbeat rage filled him and he moved toward Baal.

"You are not fit to know my name animal, for you are not human, as God created man, thus you are a beast and fit to be killed by the hand of man!" Baal snarled. Methos saw red and nearly pressed the blade home but held his hand. Richie pulled Methos away and gripped Baal by the jaw.

"Tell us where Joe is or I swear to God, I'll kill you with my bare hands." He snarled his features distorted.

"He's right there . . ." Baal said and began laughing. He pointed to the pile of dead snipers on the landing. Richie released Baal and ran to the bodies frantically he began removing bloody hoods praying and hoping that a familiar face wouldn't meet his eyes. He screamed in horror, the fifth body was Joe's he'd been shot in the chest. Distantly it occurred to him that all the other corpses had been killed by headshots.

"They killed Joe! They shot him in the chest!" Richie screamed through his tears. He snatched his cell phone and dialed 911. Praying that it wasn't too late he called for paramedics. He listened to Joe's heart and began CPR. Below him the shouting continued.

"You son of a bitch, why Joe? He couldn't hurt you, no one would have believed him if he'd tried to tell them what you were really up to, why couldn't you just leave him in peace?" Methos cried.

Baal favored him with a sickly grin and said, "Because you loved him, he was your friend and your father, in image if not reality. It was necessary to remove him."

Mac snatched him off the table and hurled him to the ground; from nowhere he produced a combat knife and began cutting Baal's clothing off. "Tell me, whoever you are why I shouldn't let Adam have you? Or maybe I should kill you myself, or maybe just bring you to the point of death and let he and Richie draw straws? What do you think?" He asked as the last scrap of Baal's shirt fell away. Mac held the knife above his heart and dragged the edge down his chest. A mad little gleam had entered the Highlander's eyes.

"Do what you like, you have already lost, your love of the old man has cost you everything. Even now my reinforcements are positioning themselves to cut you down and take your heads tomorrow, a week, a year, tick tock, they're waiting. You can do nothing there is no escape. Your friend Richie will lose his head in about an hour regardless of what you do, a countdown has begun in his collar, your friend Joe is dead, your friend Methos, yes I know his real name, has a secret that he will not share in defense of your sanity and it will drive a wedge between you, regardless of my fate, your little group is gone, which leaves you weak. You were the last obstacle for us, the last true threat to our plans now you are gone, eradicated by your own choices. Torture me, kill me, keep me alive, it has no baring on the end result, you have already lost." Baal hissed gleefully.

Mac stood and stared at the half naked specter of nightmares. "Take him Methos, he is nothing now, we have to go." Methos nodded curtly and baring his teeth descended on the prone body of his prey. Mac turned away from the crunches, the screams and the gurgles. He watched Richie's arms rise and fall, his back bend as he administered CPR. His surrogate son's face was wet with tears.

Moving as though in a dream Mac climbed the steps and knelt beside Richie. His shirt was soaked with sweat. Mac reached out and laid a calming hand on Richie's clasped hands. Finally Richie ceased, Mac more out of formality than any hope checked the old man's pulse. To his shock there was one.

"Dear God, it worked Richie, he has a pulse." Mac scooped his friend and watcher up in his arms and carried him down the stairs. Richie picked up their weapons and followed.

As they reached the bottom Methos straightened from his grisly work and took point, leading the way out of their deathtrap. They seemed almost to move in slow motion. Battered and shocked, bloody and army they carried their wounded. As they neared the exit they could hear the sound of emergency personnel. They kept moving until they saw the silhouettes of EMT's moving in to the glassed in lobby. Richie moved silently into the lobby, he held a blade to an EMT's neck.

"This man goes first." He growled as Mac laid Joe on the stretcher.

"You never saw us." Mac stated in a cold as ice voice. The EMT nodded stiffly Mac faded back to the shadows; Richie put a finger to his lips and followed Mac. The EMT wasted no time carting Joe out to a waiting ambulance.

No one noticed three shadows vanish over the back fence. No one noticed three heavily armed men climb into a black T- Bird. When they got back to the dojo there was a message from the local hospital asking Mr. MacLeod to come in his friend Mr. Dawson had been in an accident. Apparently Dawson had listed Mac as his emergency contact.

None of them spoke; Methos sat Richie down under a lamp and began probing his collar. The youth hadn't been able to calm down since overhearing Baal's dying speech. Irritated and unable to help Mac switched on a radio.

"Breaking news tonight is the mysterious murder of twenty six men at an abandoned office building, and six others at a local warehouse has police baffled. The men were gunned down in an apparent shoot out. One man survived the second attack and is at . . ." Mac shut it off. Methos was sharpening a steak knife in preparation to opening Richie's throat. He moved back to Richie's side.

The ancient's face hands, and clothes were bloody, whatever he had done to Baal had been painful and messy, best not to dwell on it Mac thought.

"This will probably kill you, but I'll do my best to make sure its not permanent, and Richie, you can watch my back anytime." Corny, he knew but it was true, whatever debt Richie had owed Methos he'd repaid, by risking his life to save Joe and call for help.

"See you soon, Mac." Richie said in a voice desperately trying to be brave and failing.

"Half an hour tops," Mac bluffed and squeezed Richie's hand.

"Right, kids, here we go." Methos said and made the first cut.

Detective Morina hated this shit. Gangbangers, and middle aged gangsters, or bad asses sure, but little kids and old guys who should be kicking back with a beer. He hated that. He hoped to God the old guy pulled through. He had a gut feeling the old guy wasn't supposed to be there. All the other bodies had been ID'd as mercenaries or ex-cons. Hard cases with violent paramilitary training and connections. The sort of people you expected to end up dying in a nasty gunfight. This guy, this Joe Dawson, saw action in 'Nam, lost his legs there too. Spent the rest of his days playing blues and running a couple bars. Nothing big, a businessman, he shouldn't have been mixed up in that shit.

"Detective Morina?" A pretty young nurse, stereotype pretty, asked interrupting his thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"Mr. Dawson is out of surgery now, he's stable but still in critical condition. His emergency contact has been notified of his condition and should be coming in to see Mr. Dawson soon."

"Thanks, could you tell me who his contact is?"

"Certainly, a Mr. MacLeod."

"Thanks again." Morina said distracted, MacLeod, the mysterious Duncan MacLeod who popped up in relation to so many cases but had nothing to do with 'em?

"Looks like luck ran out for you Mr. M." Morina muttered and headed toward the critical care wing.

Methos stepped out of the light and continued the final incision. He'd cut into the tissue and located the control box. Disarmed the explosives, although not the timer, and was now trying to get the wretched thing off the boy. His tongue sticking out in a grisly caricature of concentration he made one last cut and pulled on the collar hopefully. Reluctantly but surely it pulled away from Ryan's throat. He tossed it to the side and stitched the flesh back together. He knew it probably wasn't necessary but neck and head wounds could be tricky, look at Kalas and the Kurgan. Finished he accepted a beer from Mac and stepped back to examine his work. Noticing his bloody hand on the bottle it dawned on him just how gore encrusted he was. There wasn't a portion of him that wasn't caked in blood and filth. Grimacing he set the beer down.

"Not thirsty?" Mac joked wearily.

Methos didn't bother to respond. Ryan wasn't healing as quickly as he'd hoped. He moved to check his pulse when the familiar tame lightning of the healing quickening played across the youth's throat. A moment later he took a deep breath returning to life.

Nervously Ryan's hand strayed to his throat, fingers dancing along the now prominent scar. Finally he relaxed in to a grin and laughed. The laugh was strange, raw, not unpleasantly so like Kalas's, just rough.

"Right, hose off and we'll go see Joe." Mac said hugging the young man. Richie and Methos then raced toward the bathroom Mac followed at a more leisurely pace satisfied when the trip wire he'd strung as a whim worked perfectly knocking them both flat. He stepped over their prone giggling bodies and into the shower. He felt a bit traitorous forcing them to laugh while he couldn't smile and Joe lay dying in stranger's hands. Still they needed it to relieve the stress of the last hours if nothing else. Within half an hour they were all presentable, no longer blood caked anyway. They piled into the car and raced to the hospital.

Joe watched himself. He wasn't sure how he knew that the old man wired to machines and filled with tubes was him but he did. He knew that he could join with the tired old man and return to his life. He knew that his bar and guitar, his friends, and his daughter were still there for him. But he was so tired, so very tired. He could let go, let go and rest. . .  
When the nurse on watch would only let Mac in Methos proceeded to dazzle her with bullshit and charm, gaining them all access and himself her phone number. They entered gingerly silently like a mourning party at a funeral home. Joe lay looking older than Methos and helpless. Tubed wired and monitored. Unbidden tears began to fall from the ancient's eyes.

Joe watched as his friends filed into the room. Life was so hard for them. He felt bad for them, briefly he wondered if when they 'died' they felt as rested as he did, something gently reminded him he wasn't dead not yet. He asked the something if he could have legs if he let them go. The presence said yes.

"Don't give up yet Joe, come on Dawson, you never gave up on us, we won't give up on you." Methos whispered gripping Joe's cold hand. All at once he couldn't take the room anymore, memories of Alexa, of a dozen other friends and lovers leapt at him. Gasping he released Joe's hand and staggered into the hallway.

Methos Joe remembered with an effort, that was Methos, he had suffered so much more than the rest of them. Will you still be here if I come again? He asked the presence. Yes it told him without words and wrapped him in warmth. Determined Joe looked down at himself and allowed himself to feel his limbs. To merge . . . .

Joe's heart and brain monitor wobbled and a nurse came running calling for a doctor she shooed Mac and Richie out of the room. Richie joined Methos. A burly cop walked down the hall toward them. His close cropped hair and walk gave him away.

"Mr. MacLeod?" he asked Mac. Wearily Mac nodded.

"I'm Detective Morina, Homicide. I'm in charge of the investigation. Are you aware of how Mr. Dawson became involved in tonight's events?" As he spoke the detective took a good look at Mac, Richie, and Methos.

"I'm sorry Detective but I don't think I can tell you anything helpful."

Morina, eyeballed Methos and Richie, fixing on the soles of their shoes.

"So, you couldn't tell me about three men seen fleeing the scene by one witness, or two men, one with short blond hair, in his twenties, or another older guy with short dark hair, strange accent who threatened an EMT at the scene of the crime?"

Mac eyed Morina and refused to answer. He set his jaw and leveled his gaze.

"Look Mr. MacLeod, to be honest I could care less about the scum that got wiped out tonight. At the office or the warehouse, they had it coming, half of em were drug dealers and arms racketeers. All I care about is the innocent, namely one Mr. Joe Dawson, a retired vet, with no legs who somehow got himself involved in a gun battle between a small army and what appears to be three super soldiers. Now all I really want to know is this, is Mr. Dawson gonna be safe when he leaves this place?"

Mac considered Morina. Richie and Methos had perked up at the descriptions from the EMT now they listened intently.

"Detective Morina I give you my word, that we willdie to protect Joe. That's all I can tell you." The two men looked into each other's eyes for a moment.

"I'll be back Mr. M. you so much as sneeze and I'll have the national guard after you, got it?" Morina snapped. Mac nodded.

"What do you think?" Richie asked. Mac didn't reply and Methos shrugged. Richie accepted the answers; he was too exhausted to care. If they wanted to cart him away for twenty-seven murders fine just as long as it didn't turn into twenty-eight.

Finally Morina returned he trudged down the hall ignoring the huddled men, as he passed Mac he whispered, "Meet me in the supply closet in five minutes."

"Kinky." Methos muttered as the burly cop vanished down the hall. Mac didn't bother responding, he waited four and a half minutes and then followed the cop.  
Mac leaned against the door to the closet until the coast was clear and then slipped inside. He felt a gun pressing into his belly.

"Now tell me what happened tonight."

Considering the possibilities Mac acquiesced. "It was simple, a friend of mine turned up a while ago a little worse for wear and not really himself. When he found himself he found a threat from some very nasty people. Said nasty people took Joe and threatened our lives. We moved to snatch Joe, only they'd shot him and left him for dead. We took care of the threat and tried to save our friend. There, the down and dirty." Mac said rapidly.

"What about the warehouse?"

"Location A, the office was B. He wasn't at A so we defended ourselves and went to B."

Morina considered the story for a minute, "Fine, that's about how I figured it, now, in ten minutes, your friend is going to suffer a 'fatal' heart attack. You wait in the morgue and a team will meet you, explain what care he's going to need and provide the equipment. You give me a contact number and I give you your friend. You and your pals can protect him better than I ever could and I've got a feeling we'd never be able to prosecute anyway."

"What about the EMT?"

"He'll keep his mouth shut. Look MacLeod, I don't want to know more than you told me already okay? But if anything happens to Dawson I'll hunt you down and feed you your own liver. Got it?" Mac tried not to smile at the threat, still the man knew what Mac could do and still considered the threat viable, one never knew.

"Why are you doing this?" Mac asked.

"Because I can and I don't want you or your friends on my turf or in my life anymore, I have enough problems with regular hoods and dealers without you lot setting up shop too."  
Morina said coldly.

"Fine, and Detective Morina, if you ever need something, I mean ever, call me." Mac stepped out of the closet followed by Morina. Mac gave him several contact numbers. "One more thing Morina, there may be a few more 'incidents'. We'll keep as many uninvolved people out as possible."

"How'm I gonna know when its you?"

"Think about it Morina, you'll know." Mac said and turned he rounded up his compatriots and headed for the morgue. Morina considered MacLeod's words, decided he was right there weren't that many three man hit squads with no casualties that could take out a highly trained private army without an enemy shot being fired.

"Hey, MacLeod, if any other innocent people get involved in this bull shit I'll kill you myself, stay out of my town, got it?" Morina snapped as Mac left the closet.

After they'd picked up Joe and settled him in they sat down with a bottle of whiskey.

"What now?" Richie asked downing a shot.

"Now? Now its war Richie." Methos said coldly holding his glass up to the light admiring its amber color.

"You think there are more?" Duncan asked pouring himself another.

"Of course, there has to be even if there wasn't are you willing to take that risk?" Methos asked downing his drink.

"No, not with people like that. I don't suppose you'd be willing to tell me that secret Baal mentioned." Duncan asked somewhat rhetorically sitting back with his drink. Methos shot Richie a look and Richie nodded. Duncan felt odd having Methos and Richie sharing forbidden knowledge.

"What do you know about the Game?"

"It's always existed it's the reason immortals fight and take heads."

"Has it always existed?"

"Of course, why else would we do it, its part of who we are, are you saying, that its was somehow . . . invented?."

"Which is why its war." Methos said coldly.

"This is preposterous, how do you know all this?"

"Because I was there. That's what he made me remember. My . . . . master, plotted with the original cult now known as the watchers. Somehow, the secret of immortals had gotten out. Rumors were strategically placed, and legends were born. It's true that you take an immortal's power and knowledge when you take his head but that's where it ends, there is no prize! Get it NO PRIZE, now the Game can never end, it will never stop. I knew a man named Arctus he was an immortal. He plotted with the Watchers because he thought it would make him safe from other immortals that's what he made me remember." Methos finished with a snarl.

"Hey, Methos, how'd he know about all this?" Richie asked.

"I don't know for sure, Watcher's records? How did you learn about it?" Methos answered.

"They teased me with it, tried to use it as an excuse for me to kill you." Richie said slightly drunk. Methos nodded. Duncan watched the byplay still trying to accept that the game was nonexistent.

"Holy Ground?" Duncan asked in a small voice.

"I don't know, but I wouldn't want to test it. Not all of the legend is crap. Just the best part." Methos smirked giving in to his momentary bitterness.

"Then its war." Mac said in a solemn tone.

"To war." Richie said and raised his glass the other two-followed suit and Death, Pain, and Sorrow toasted war over the inert body of their friend.


End file.
